“I find, in being Black, a thing of beauty: a joy; a strength; a secret cup of gladness.” 
—Ossie Davis

My family taught me that I come from a legacy of Black agency and excellence. They didn’t sugarcoat our history: I was well aware that, as a descendant of chattel slavery, my ancestors weren’t even thought of as people when trafficked into this hemisphere. Family taught that we were just ordinary people, but look at the collective greatness these ordinary Black people brought to the world. 

I’m grateful that I was taught deep respect for my forebears and our history. Still, it’s hard to live up to that when you’re eight years old. When my mother would say, “What do you mean you don’t want to do your fifteen minutes of reading today? You know our liberation came through our people fighting to be literate,” I’d say, “Oh, God, Mom. FINE: Hand me my book!”

I sensed that when your ancestors managed to craft freedom from dire, inhumane circumstances and set models of liberation for the world, my margin for error was remarkably small. What could I possibly have to complain about? What height was impossible to attain?

Alas, I am my mother’s child. Some twenty years later, at the end of the first year of my Ph.D. program, they sat us in a room with faculty to receive verbal feedback. My feedback was good; I was very happy. Then one of the faculty members said, “I know this is uncomfortable, but I have to say it.”

I’m like, Oh, God. Here we go!

She said, “In all of your classes this year, you managed”—that was the word she used: managed—“to write about Black people. I’m concerned. You write really well and I think you’re bent towards being a scholar, but I’m concerned about you pigeonholing yourself.”

“There are scholars in the Academy,” I asserted, “who’ve written about a single choreographer for thirty years. There are people who analyze a single piece of art for their entire career, or people who focus on a singular philosopher. I can’t see how writing about the Black diaspora is narrower than that. There’s enough diversity in the diaspora to keep me busy my whole life, if I want to. Thank you, but I don’t share your fear.”

What that faculty member didn’t know was that I was already rooted in my people’s history. Narrow margins be damned, I’d been given a mandate to explore and articulate the value and relevance of that history, no matter what.

Living as a Black person in this world is rigorous and beautiful, requiring the ability to navigate life challenging circumstances as a matter of course, while holding on to and shaping the continuum of our collective legacy. No matter the circumstance, I wouldn’t want to be anything else. I invite folks to look upon Black history with reverence and our personhood with awe.

Prayer

With gratitude and gladness, may we celebrate Black History month with the honor it deserves, embracing the chance for reflection and jubilation in equal measure. Amen!