I should be quick in my response to this prompt, however I find myself filled with a sense of grief that I don’t know what the right response is.
Before I speak on Black History Month, it is imperative that I define what black history is in itself. The reality is that there is no set definition to what black history is or the meaning that it holds for a certain individual. Individuals who are reading this article must be cognizant of the fact that blackness is not a uniformed experience; please be careful not to take my words on my experience to be that of every person you meet. There is a whole diaspora of people under the umbrella of blackness whose experiences are quite different from mine and I am very thankful to have been given the outlet to share it.
My black history is a culture of something from nothing. I am from a generation of people whose ancestors knew no boundaries in their quest for “better.” To them, the idea of “better” was an elusive idea. However, they had unwavering faith in the belief that somehow, there had to be a better life than what they had been given. This was a life that they wanted for those to come to be more than they wanted for themselves in their immediate circumstance. If that doesn’t give you a clue, I am birthed of a rich history that is well acquainted with the idea of sacrifice. This culture has a history full of insightfulness and intention. Black history is the lineage of the monarchs of the Ashanti Kingdom. It is filled with figures like Angela Davis and Tamir Rice, a custom of internalizing pain, all wrapped together in brokenness and and tied with not so pretty string made of oppression. It is a culture plagued with echos of “I don’t know where I’m from,” spoken from the lips of individuals who simply exist on a plane of the unknown.
Do not worry for us as we embrace who we are in all aspects. Blackness is a hot Baptist church on Sunday morning with long services. It is filled with church mothers whose eyes you never see because their wide brimmed hats fall too low on their eyes as they mutter words of wisdom and affirmation. Black history is the Freedom Summer of 1964 and “Progress by any means necessary.” Black History Month is a 28-day observation of my beautiful rich culture filled with people who have timelessly proved our failure to accept mediocrity. I adore us!
This month is just a platform for black people to do something we do everyday: celebrate black pride. It is in the way we shout, “Yes girl, curls on point!” across a lunchroom, to the way we command attention when we enter a white space. Black History Month is a celebration of the differences that separate us from every other group of people on this planet. It is a reminder to white America that my people are on the verge of reclamation. Please trust that the hard work of my ancestors has not been in vain.
Alana Smith, a Contributing Writer for the Voice, can be reached for comment at ASmith20@wooster.edu.