Why Black History Month

"If the branch is to flower, it must honour its roots." Titinga Frederic Pacere

I was told by a “diluted” Caucasian (her word, not mine) that there should be no Black history month. I tried to listen, to be open to her ideas, but I couldn’t. I shut her down with the Black hand side before I even shook my head in uncertainty to what I’d actually just heard tumble from her lips.

I believe her explanation was something like ‘Black history being American history and having a month set aside for something that is the whole country’s is silly.’ But like I said, I turned from cool, unthreatening Sam to a force to be reckoned with, to much darker than my yellow skin suggests. I turned into a representative, something I have never quite been fond of but this girl who refers to herself as diluted, who actually gave voice to such self-hatred, while I’m thanking my white momma every day that she married daddy and birthed ain’t-too-proud-to-speak me.

I spoke. Of sober mind and body, I spoke to the very sweet though very ignorant girl. I asked her what she knew about Black history that didn’t involve the physical enslavement of my people (no way the girl had a clue about mental bondage though she was obviously dying of it herself). I asked her what she could tell me about Black history that didn’t involve Martin Luther King, Rosa Parks, or Malcolm X. I asked her to name me five, just five, Black authors. She sat in silent ignorance, my voice smothering her bliss, the confines of my car holding it to her face to smell. She knew she stunk. She knew she misspoke. She has been overly sensitive ever since.