Black History Month, Revisited

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"My humanity is bound up in yours, for we can only be human together."  -- Desmond Tutu

Today is the start of Black History Month.  Normally I would wish to reflect on its impact and implications -- and two years ago I did just that in a previous post -- but given the state of our country over the last few weeks that feels impossible to do.  The very things that form the foundations of hope each February are being stripped away at an alarming rate; there is confusion, depression, and fear all around.  I want this to be a time when I can celebrate Little Man's growth as he learns from those who came before him, but this year I can only feel grateful that he can't yet understand how the world is changing before his eyes.

To hear people sling terms like diversity, equity, and inclusion like arrows rather than spread them like open arms is disheartening.  History is repeating itself as things like merit suddenly lose their value and those brave enough to take a stand for what's right are seen as enemies.  To try and make sense of each and every piece of news or social media is overwhelming, and it is understandable that some need to step away.  However, that feels like a fleeting luxury as those who have lived this before experience a dark sense of deja vu and watch their warnings go unheeded.  Those who do hear the call feel hopeless and that nothing that can be done is enough.  I'm not just scared for Little Man; I'm scared for so many whose names I don't even know but whose lives, genders, religions, cultures, and everything else are being cast aside.

So what now?  That seems like an overly simple question with an impossibly complex answer.  For now,  I have to observe this Black History Month with the mentality that every month is Black History Month.  That what we are seeing right now is indeed Black History.  That I have to hold onto my humanity to teach Little Man to hold onto his.  That the entirety of Little Man's history can't be condensed and taught or reduced to 28 days.  That making my voice heard might not feel enough, but when we all resign ourselves to that outcome then it makes itself true. That his history isn't suddenly my history because it never can be, but I share the collective responsibility to ensure it is never forgotten. 

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