February is coming to a close, and I wanted to honor Black History Month. But what is Black History Month? What is black history? What even is black?
I searched the dictionary, and found the words soiled, filthy, disaster, wicked, gloom, evil, failure, and disgrace neighboring the term African-American. Whoa. When a book of the highest authority of the English language tells me that black = hateful, and I have grown up all my life knowing that I am black, then I can't help but wonder, am I hateful?
Sometimes I find myself questioning, after nearly two decades of internalizing the negativity associated with all things black, evident in phrases like the Black Death, black sheep, blackball, blackmail, black market, black ice, blacklist and so on. I understand this as part of the Eurocentrism permeating literally every aspect of the society in which we live. The definition for white proves that neocolonialism affects everything down to the language we use day in and day out. My spoken-word poem, “Afraid of the Dark,” shows that this is no new phenomenon:
The poem ends in favor of those deemed “black” by society redefining blackness on our own terms, finding inherent value and worth within ourselves, and practicing radical self-love. What a perfect month to erase the marks of hate within and delve into a realm of black excellence. February has been the perfect month for hearing Mary Hooks to speak to my congregation, delivering the mandate for all black people to avenge the suffering of our ancestors and uphold their legacies. These past 28 days have been the best for delving into the theory and activism of Angela Davis, Kimberlé Crenshaw, bell hooks, Audre Lorde, and the work of other black feminist and womanist revolutionaries. On the fifth anniversary of Trayvon Martin’s murder, this is just the right time for seeing a play about black humanity produced by a Memphis native, HBCU and ivy league grad, then later witnessing well-deserving blacktresses, blacktors, and filmmakers traversing the Oscars stage at last.
At this year's Blacktivism Conference, one speaker discussed protest as a lifestyle, declaring that Blacktivism begins with radical self-love. The movement for Black Liberation is a fight for freedom from every oppressive system we continue to face, and it is also a force of validation, synergy, healing, and spiritual nourishment. Resisting the systems of white supremacist patriarchy is a process of reversing the centuries' worth of trauma our people have faced.
Every day, I take strides towards undoing a deep-rooted, socially endorsed self-hatred. Eurocentrism dominates our worldview, in everything from our beauty standards to our historical education. When one of my friends of color tells me she has to straighten her “wild” hair because it “looks a mess,” I challenge her on what that even means. When people with skin several shades lighter than mine say they need to avoid direct sunlight for fear of becoming “too dark,” I also give them a healthy dose of skepticism—of course as a friendly boost of self-esteem, but also a way of challenging outlooks and unlearning problematic perspectives.
The statement that “black is beautiful” is such a radical one, because implicit in so many other depictions of blackness is the idea that it is not. Resistance is found in every unapologetic act of self-expression: reveling in my culture, honoring my roots. As people praise the Victorian and Elizabethan literary greats, I use my artistic platform to venerate the works of Maya Angelou, Toni Morrison, Zora Neale Hurston, Langston Hughes, Alice Walker, and other colorful beacons of excellence. I strive to do the same with music, visual art, film, theater, and any other creation subject to whitewashed standards of artistic merit.
There is never a better time to get in touch with my heritage and connect with those whose genes have built the very fabric of my being. Like many of them did, I walk outside every day knowing there are people who have and will continue to hate my existence, simply because I was born—some of whom have been provided uniforms, weapons, and legal legitimacy. Like many of them also did, I still fight alongside my people for the right to life, for the right to simply exist as a black person, not as a black, but as a person. Unfortunately, this fight is a familiar sight to so many other contemporary social movements. Black Liberation is a fight for all black people, though not a fight solely for black people. Though we emphasize blackness, it's never "their" struggle vs. "our" struggle, because the black community will only be free when we all are free from oppressive systems—those that intersect with gender, class, ethnicity, sexuality, (dis)ability, nationality, citizenship, and all other identities interweaving our multifaceted family. We have a long road to recovery ahead.
In order to devote time and energy into helping heal our shared hurt, I must first invest in every part of myself and my own self-love. This black history month has found me blasting my music, rocking my braids, and quoting revolutionaries left and right, all while smiling with the whole of my glowing cinnamon skin and midnight coffee eyes. I’ve loved every second of cheering on my black brothers and sisters as they step, spit lyrical rhymes at poetry slams, and simply live life in ways that prove how we truly are embodiments of our ancestors' wildest dreams. When I am reminded of all the infinite manifestations of blackness and a future of limitless possibilities, I see myself as much less "hateful" and much more worthy of love. College has further exposed me to the myriad blackness of which we are all a part. This month, and every month, I will admire it in all of its beauty, splendor, and complexity. I cannot wait for what more's in store.
