For as long as I can recall, I have carried the essence of my skin like a heavy burden. Being Black in America is undeniably complex and often overwhelming. This weight has been felt through countless encounters, from being pulled over for a “routine check” by law enforcement to the uncomfortable stares of security guards shadowing me in stores. It’s a sentiment I’ve experienced in predominantly white workplaces, particularly as a person in a leadership role. It lingers during job interviews, housing searches, and even on dates.
This heaviness is compounded by the collective sorrow we share as a community, deeply aware of the injustices that have befallen our brothers and sisters: Trayvon Martin, Sandra Bland, Eric Garner, and countless others whose names fade into obscurity, like my cousin Marcus Ellis, whose story remains untold. The pain resurfaces when I witness the burning of Colin Kaepernick’s jersey for peacefully protesting racial injustice, or see militarized police confront peaceful demonstrations. It’s evident when I observe white-owned businesses profiting from the legalization of marijuana while many Black men remain incarcerated for minor offenses. A noose left on a chair as a “joke,” the derogatory terms hurled at us, and the ongoing attempts to erase our contributions to art and culture weigh heavily on our spirits.
I feel this burden in the food we cherish, the poetry we write, and the music we create. It resonates in the struggle for recognition, the haunting words of poets like Langston Hughes, and the culinary art that transforms hardship into flavorful dishes. From gospel to hip-hop, our music pulses with the rhythm of resilience and purpose.
Yet, amidst this struggle, there lies the realization that our success often hinges on the decisions of others. Like Jackie Robinson’s historic moment of stealing home, we know that opportunities can be snatched away or appropriated by those who do not share our experiences. The systemic barriers we face compound the health issues that disproportionately affect our communities, from hypertension to diabetes—not due to genetics, but rather the relentless stress of daily life.
Learning to love one’s identity is no simple feat; it begins in childhood. Like many Black children, I was taught early on to embrace my worth. The lyrics of “The Greatest Love of All” served as an anthem, instilling a sense of pride and resilience. It’s a reminder that the world may not make it easy for us, but we must rise above the challenges posed by societal racism and oppression.
Each February, we celebrate Black History Month, recounting the tales of our ancestors’ valor and innovation, often overshadowed by systemic racism. Yet, rather than dwell on the struggles, I choose to celebrate the joy and richness of my identity today. Today, I will crank up the music, dance with abandon, and let the warmth of the sun kiss my skin, a beautiful reminder of my heritage. I refuse to carry the burdens of societal expectations. Instead, I will honor the legacy of leaders like Dr. King by uplifting myself, choosing to feel lighter than air as I proudly embrace my identity.
Today, I will celebrate my melanin as if it were the most precious element in the universe.
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In summary, embracing our heritage is a journey filled with both struggles and profound joys. Today, let us choose to celebrate the beauty of our identities and the richness of our culture.