The paradox of “Black History Month” in America

February 2020

Here’s the thing: I’ve always found the concept of a Black history month strange. A month dedicated to celebrating all things Black, and Black culture, while living as a Black person in America is confusing—to say the least. On a daily, we face aggressions, both macro and micro. We face systemic oppression, racism, and prejudice. So why claim to celebrate us in February, when our existence itself is generally fraught with struggle? I’m Black every day. I can’t pick and choose when to show up that way or not—and I know many of you feel the same way.

In a recent conversation with Tina Strawn and EbonyJanice, I was really struck by EbonyJanice sharing about her 12-year old, male-identifying nephew. Her family had gone back and forth with his school, which was reluctant to permit him to change to a different school. The school was reluctant because they didn’t want to admit that they couldn’t serve him, that their inability to serve this young man was causing him irreparable harm. Because the school itself was not equipped to teach and value Black People.

This story hit me so hard. As I held back tears, I ruminated on all the times I’ve existed in spaces where I was told I was too something: too aggressive, too angry, too much. I thought about the unwillingness of these spaces to do the fucking work it would take to center my well-being like they center the well-being of white folks. I realize that often, it’s not that I am too something. It’s that I exist in a country that doesn’t consistently prioritize safeguarding my well-being.

With love,
Sinikiwe