Black Joy Is Not Ignorance

There is something almost insulting about being asked to compress ourselves into a month, as if Black joy and Black history are seasonal instead of foundational.

As if we arrived recently. As if this country—and most of the world—was not built on our backs, our brilliance, our bodies, our labor, our imagination.

February is not a gift.  It is a reminder.  And even that reminder often comes in crumbs we are expected to receive with gratitude.

WE ARE THE HISTORY.

I am proud of our history.  I have become more and more proud as Iearn and discover.  And I am tired of pretending that our existence needs permission, packaging, or a calendar slot.

We are living in a moment where crisis is everywhere—loud, constant, unavoidable.  And still, many of us are choosing joy.

That choice can look confusing from the outside.  How can there be laughter when so much is burning?  How can there be softness when the systems remain sharp?

But our joy has never meant ignorance.  It has never meant denial.  Or that we don’t see what is happening.

It means we do.

I reject the way “Black joy” is often presented.  As if it needs to be justified, explained, or isolated.  History shows that Black people fight for everybody.  Over and over again.  So no, joy does not need to carry a disclaimer.

I think in Black.  Which means joy, grief, humor, memory, history, and resistance all live in the same body.  There is no switch to flip between them.  Black joy is not performative happiness.  It is lived continuity.

Right now, my joy lives in my body.  In routines that ground me.  In boundaries that protect my spirit.  And in the habits I have chosen on purpose—because peace does not arrive by accident.

Joy is something I seek out and cultivate.  Not because I am unaware, but because I am.

We come from connection.  That connection was intentionally fractured—through slavery, trauma, and systems designed to divide and isolate us.  And still, somehow, we remember each other.

Across the globe, there is a familiar humor.  A shared language.  A rhythm that needs no explanation.

Social media helps remind me of this—not as performance, but as recognition.  We laugh the same.  Love the same.  We correct each other with care.  Sometimes with tough love—because growth requires honesty.

We are coming back to ourselves.

What we share is not just culture—it is experience.  The way we have been seen.  The way we have been forced to move in the world.  And the collective exhaustion of carrying that weight.

Black women, especially, are always holding the line.  Holding space.  Caring for everyone.  Feeling everything.  We are often on the front line whether we volunteered or not.  And still, we nurture.  Still, we love.  Still, we laugh.  That, too, is Black joy.

Resilience, for me, is no longer about endurance, for endurance’s sake.  It is not about suffering timelines or praise for pain.  Resilience is continuing.  Getting back up.  Moving forward in ways that fulfill others and myself.  Knowing I must be full before I can pour.  Black joy is not loud strength.  It is sustainable strength.

There is also something else we must name plainly.  We are watching history repeat itself.  And for those who still believe this fight does not concern them—especially white Americans—this is the moment to understand:
Your life does not get better when Black lives get worse. 

Racism has always been the easiest way to divide people.  But it has always been tied to economics and class.  Those in power need pawns.  And pawns are disposable.

You are angry at the wrong people.

They do not care when Black blood is shed.  They did not care when white children were killed in schools.  And they do not care now.  The question is not whether history is repeating itself.  It is whether we will finally learn.

We don’t need to tell them who we are, because they already know.  That is why so much energy is spent trying to make us forget.

This is spiritual warfare.  And we all have different assignments.
Some of us are on the front line.
Others support.
Some are storytellers and historians.
Some of us are healers.

Every role matters.

What we cannot do is allow their ways—this fight—to harden us into something unrecognizable.  They are not the standard.  Black joy is armor.  It is memory.  Black joy is connection.  And together, it is how we go far.

BTW:  If you want to go fast go alone.  If you want to far, go together. – African Proverb

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