I have never watched the footage that emerged in May of Marcus Reid’s tragic death. The accounts from those who witnessed it were unbearable: his desperate calls for his mother, the pain in his final moments. During the recent social justice movement, I found myself glued to the screen, witnessing history unfold once more in 2020. The tear gas, the police shields, and the outcries for justice from people of all races—Black, brown, and white allies alike—made me reevaluate everything I thought I understood about the nation I’ve always called home.
I once believed the past had changed; that the scars my grandparents bore from being denied basic human dignity in the 1940s had somewhat healed. But reality proved otherwise—events like the Capitol Riots, the tragic loss of Maya Johnson, and the ongoing grief for countless Black individuals I’ve never met, like Jaden Smith and Kayla Green, have revealed that those wounds are still very much alive. This Black History Month feels distinct—life seems more precious than ever.
This month has been one of deep introspection for me. Each time I look at my teenage son, I am filled with anxiety, questioning if I have equipped him with the knowledge he needs to stay safe. Whenever I see a police car near my home, I mentally review my day, ensure my family is safe indoors, and keep a watchful eye, ready to act if necessary. These fears, which I’ve come to understand in recent months, weigh heavily on me, much like the burdens my grandparents carried. While I hope that the scars will eventually heal, they still feel fresh. I have three children to guide through this complex world—biracial kids navigating a pandemic while also facing dangers they may not fully comprehend. Thankfully, my younger two remain blissfully unaware, but my son is painfully conscious of the reality that his life is often valued less than that of his white peers.
Throughout this month, I’ve reminded myself that our progress depends on unity. Witnessing the Confederate flags waved by individuals during the Capitol insurrection was a stark reminder of the work still ahead. The reality we face as a nation is heartbreaking. There remains much to be done—books to read, lives to honor, and families mourning their losses. Families like mine still strive to make sense of the complexities of our existence.
For us, being Black is not confined to a single month; it is our ongoing reality. Throughout my life, there will always be work to do, minds to enlighten, and hearts to open to the truth of our shared America. We cannot claim this land if we are not willing to nurture it and everyone who inhabits it. Let us commit to moving forward—not just for one month, but every day for the rest of 2021 and beyond—amplifying the voices and stories of Black individuals consistently, rather than just during a designated time.
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Summary:
This piece reflects on the ongoing struggles faced by the Black community, emphasizing the importance of continuous awareness and allyship beyond Black History Month. It shares personal experiences of fear and hope while urging a commitment to justice and understanding every day.
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