The Importance of Black History: Reclaiming Our Power, Reshaping Our Future
- Ruby N Lewis
- Jun 8
- 24 min read
The Importance of Black History: Reclaiming Our Power, Reshaping Our Future
In a country where Black people are often treated as the enemy by default, the importance of Black History cannot be overstated. Black Americans are bombarded with messages—from schools, media, and institutions—that suggest they are less than, that they are unworthy, that they have no future. This is not just painful—it’s intentional. It's a systemic campaign to erase the brilliance, power, and contributions of an entire people.
From the moment a Black child is born in America, they enter a world that has already decided what their narrative should be. Before they can walk or talk, the media has already written their storyline: criminal, dropout, athlete, entertainer—rarely scientist, rarely CEO, rarely president. From cartoons to textbooks, from classrooms to courthouses, a quiet but powerful conditioning begins. It tells them that their skin is a problem, that their history is either shameful or irrelevant, and that their future has already been decided for them.
This is not by accident. This is by design.
The erasure and distortion of Black history serve a specific purpose—to maintain control. If a people don’t know where they come from, it’s easier to manipulate where they’re going. If you convince a group that they have contributed nothing to civilization, they won’t fight for their place in it. If you flood their history books with other people’s triumphs, while burying or omitting their own, they’ll struggle to find pride, let alone power.
The system is rigged in layers. On one hand, you have the overt messaging: the stereotypes, the biased news reports, the “random” police stops, the cultural appropriation disguised as admiration. But on the other hand, there’s something even more dangerous: the silence. The silence in classrooms during lessons on the Renaissance or the Industrial Revolution—where Black inventors, entrepreneurs, and artists are erased. The silence when it comes to the African kingdoms that predated European empires. The silence when students ask where they truly come from and are handed a story that begins in chains.
This silence is violence.
Black History breaks that silence. It is resistance. It is truth-telling. It is a lifeline in a sea of misinformation and manipulation.
Black History gives context to the present and hope for the future. It reminds Black people that they are not the problem—they are the answer. That they are not broken—they are surviving in a country that has tried every way imaginable to break them. Black History is the act of remembering in a world that constantly asks us to forget. Forget the pain. Forget the injustice. Forget the brilliance. Forget the names that built this country but were never written in its pages.
But we do remember. We remember the songs sung in the fields. We remember the hands that built the White House. We remember the blood, sweat, intellect, and resilience that run through our veins. And we know that to remember is to reclaim.
That is why we fight for Black History to be taught, celebrated, protected, and preserved—not just in February, not just in classrooms, but in every space where our voices have been silenced and our stories have been hidden.
Because when you teach a child who they truly are, you change the trajectory of their entire life. You give them armor against a world that would rather see them broken. You give them the audacity to rise.
The Dred Scott Decision and the 3/5 Clause
To understand where this erasure began, we must look at the foundation of American law. The Dred Scott v. Sandford decision of 1857 was a ruling by the U.S. Supreme Court that has been called one of the most shameful decisions in the nation’s legal history. In it, the court ruled that African Americans, whether enslaved or free, could not be American citizens and therefore had no legal standing to sue in federal court. This decision didn’t just affect one man’s case—it was a direct message to every Black person in America: you have no rights this country is bound to respect.
Dred Scott was a Black man who had been enslaved in Missouri, a slave state. He was later taken by his enslaver to live in Illinois and the Wisconsin Territory—places where slavery was prohibited. Scott sued for his freedom, arguing that by living in free territories, he had legally become a free man. The case climbed all the way to the Supreme Court. But instead of recognizing the legality of his freedom, the Court used his case to make a broader declaration about the status of all Black people in America.
Chief Justice Roger B. Taney, delivering the majority opinion, stated that people of African descent were not included under the word “citizens” in the Constitution, and thus could not claim any of the rights and privileges granted to American citizens. According to this decision, Black people were property. Not human beings. Not full persons under the law. Property.
This decision was not only dehumanizing—it was strategic. It legally reinforced the racial caste system that underpinned slavery and racial discrimination in America. It told slaveholders that their ownership was protected, even across state lines. It told abolitionists that the law would not side with justice. It told Black people that no matter what they did, freedom would remain just out of reach.
But this wasn’t a new concept. The mindset that led to the Dred Scott decision was baked into the U.S. Constitution from the beginning. The Three-Fifths Compromise—crafted during the 1787 Constitutional Convention—was a political calculation. Southern states, which held large enslaved populations, wanted those people counted to boost their representation in Congress. But they didn’t want to give them rights or freedom. So they struck a deal: each enslaved person would count as three-fifths of a person for the purposes of congressional representation and taxation.
Let that sink in: the very foundation of American democracy was built on the idea that Black people were not whole. Not citizens. Not even people in full. Just 60% of a person when it was convenient—and 0% when it wasn’t.
This compromise gave slaveholding states disproportionate power in Congress and the Electoral College, entrenching slavery and racism deeper into the fabric of the nation. It codified into law that Black lives were not just less valuable—they were a political tool, a number to be moved around for power, never for justice.
The echoes of these rulings and compromises are still with us. Even as laws have changed and slavery has been officially abolished, the core message of these decisions has been passed down through generations—not just in legislation, but in the collective mindset of America. These legal choices did not simply disappear—they evolved. They shape how institutions operate, how employers hire, how banks lend, how schools teach, and how the justice system punishes.
We must stop thinking of the Dred Scott decision and the Three-Fifths Clause as ancient history. They are not just remnants of a distant past—they are the blueprint of the present. Their spirit lives on in voter suppression laws, in redlining maps, in discriminatory hiring practices, in school funding formulas, and in the widespread belief that Black pain is negotiable but Black excellence is exceptional.
This is the root of systemic racism: not individual hate, but institutional dehumanization. And while some may argue that we’ve made progress, progress without acknowledgment is just polished oppression.
Until we confront the legal and ideological foundations of this nation, we will never truly address the inequality that persists. And that confrontation starts with knowing the truth—our truth.
A Counter-Narrative: Black History
Black history tells a different story.
In a world that constantly tries to write us out of the narrative—or worse, cast us only in roles of failure and dysfunction—Black history is the truth-teller. It steps in where mainstream education falls silent. It corrects the lies. It replaces stereotypes with reality. It shines light in the places America tries to keep in the dark.
Black history reminds us that we are not what the media portrays. We are not the thugs, gangsters, or addicts they love to show on television and film. We are not the background characters in someone else's story. We are not just trauma, tragedy, or turmoil. We are the architects of culture, the originators of rhythm, the heartbeat of innovation.
We are doctors who have healed generations and saved lives—like Dr. Charles Drew, who revolutionized blood transfusion and storage. We are engineers who defied gravity—like Mary Jackson, a Black woman engineer who helped launch NASA into space. We are teachers who educate and uplift, scientists who discover and innovate, artists who paint with soul, and writers who bend language into liberation.
We are pilots who have flown above the clouds, like Bessie Coleman, the first African American woman to hold a pilot’s license. We are entrepreneurs who built businesses from scratch in the face of redlining, discrimination, and denial—people like Madam C.J. Walker, America’s first self-made female millionaire. We are architects who designed buildings that stand tall and proud, attorneys who have changed the course of justice, and fashion designers whose creativity rivals the best in the world. We are poets and playwrights, novelists and newscasters. We are crime scene investigators, judges, scholars, and visionaries.
We are more than what the history books decided to include.
Our story doesn't start in 1619 on a slave ship. It doesn’t begin on a plantation. It doesn’t begin with suffering. Our story is ancient. It is regal. It is divine.
We come from kingdoms and dynasties. From civilizations that thrived long before European colonization. From communities that had mathematics, medicine, astronomy, architecture, and agriculture when others were still discovering fire. Our ancestors built pyramids that still confound modern science. They created spiritual and societal systems rooted in balance, family, nature, and truth. They spoke dozens of languages, passed down generational wisdom, and wore gold not as a trend, but as a symbol of lineage and power.
Our history didn’t begin with slavery—it began with royalty.
And understanding that changes everything.
Because when you know that your people built empires, you walk differently. You speak with a different authority. You don’t allow the world to define you as less-than because you know the truth: you are more than enough. You are the continuation of greatness.
That is what Black history offers—it’s not just facts and names. It’s affirmation. It’s restoration. It’s healing. It’s a mirror that shows our true reflection, not the distorted one we’ve been handed. It gives us permission to take up space, to be excellent, to dream beyond survival and into thriving.
It also provides context. When people say, “Just get over it,” Black history says, “Look at what we’ve overcome.” When people try to silence us, Black history speaks through us. When young Black children are told they have no heroes, Black history introduces them to Harriet, Frederick, Sojourner, Malcolm, Rosa, Shirley, Thurgood, Huey, Audre, and so many more.
Black history is a blueprint for resistance and a testimony of resilience. It is the proof that despite centuries of erasure, our light has never been extinguished. It is the counter-narrative to every system built to devalue us—and it is ours to tell, protect, and pass on.
The Riches of Africa
Africa is not a country. It is a continent, vast and diverse, made up of over 50 independent nations, each with its own unique languages, customs, governments, economies, and histories. And yet, too often in Western conversations, Africa is spoken of as though it’s one single, monolithic place—some distant, undeveloped landmass full of poverty and problems. That perception is both ignorant and dangerous.
Africa is not a land of lack—it is a land of abundance. Abundance in people, in beauty, in land, in culture, and especially in natural resources. While mainstream media focuses on conflict, poverty, and disease, it conveniently ignores Africa’s role as one of the most resource-rich regions on the planet. And that omission is no coincidence.
Africa is rich—rich in resources, rich in history, rich in power. This truth disrupts the tired, colonial narrative that Africa needs to be saved. In fact, it is often the other way around: the world has relied on Africa to fuel its wealth, power, and dominance—while telling the world that Africa is poor.
Let’s be clear about what Africa truly holds:
Gold, abundant in South Africa and beyond, helped build the fortunes of empires both inside and outside the continent. The Witwatersrand Basin alone has produced more than 40% of all the gold ever mined on Earth.
Diamonds, often associated with love and luxury, are plentiful in Botswana, the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), and South Africa. These stones have driven international markets, yet the local communities that mine them rarely see a fraction of the profit.
Cobalt, largely found in the DRC, is essential for modern technology—especially batteries in smartphones, electric vehicles, and other electronics. As tech giants scramble for dominance in the digital age, they are literally powered by the minerals of African soil.
Platinum Group Metals (PGMs), sourced heavily from South Africa, are crucial for car manufacturing, electronics, and medicine.
Uranium, found in Namibia and Niger, is vital for nuclear energy. It powers reactors across the globe—even as many Africans live without reliable electricity.
Bauxite, used to produce aluminum, is a major export of Guinea, contributing to building everything from airplanes to soda cans.
Chromium, Iron Ore, and Copper—found across Southern and Central Africa—play indispensable roles in global construction, manufacturing, and industry.
Africa’s geology is a blessing and a burden. Its ancient, stable continental crust is what makes it so rich in minerals. But this very richness has drawn colonizers, corporations, and corrupt leaders—who’ve stripped the land, not to empower Africa, but to feed foreign economies and agendas.
This contradiction is not accidental. The world knows how valuable Africa is. That’s why colonial powers once fought to carve it up like a pie, claiming territory, enslaving people, and extracting wealth. That’s why, even today, multinational companies and foreign governments exploit African labor and land for profit. They know the truth. The real question is: do we?
Africa is not defined by struggle, though it has endured it. Africa is not inherently poor, though it has been robbed. What many call “developing” is actually recovering—from centuries of theft, division, and distortion.
And beyond minerals and wealth, Africa is also rich in culture, intellect, and innovation. It is the birthplace of humanity. The cradle of civilization. A place of rhythm and resilience, of agriculture and astronomy, of ancient wisdom and youthful creativity.
Africa is rich. And until that is accepted and acknowledged—not just by the world, but by us as a people—there will always be a disconnect between our origin and our opportunity.
Why This Matters to Black Americans
Black history reconnects African Americans to their worth.
It reminds us that we come from more than chains, stereotypes, or survival. It offers an identity beyond what this country has taught us to believe about ourselves. It is a reminder that we were never meant to blend into the narrative of whitewashed history—we were meant to rewrite it.
In a society where Blackness is often criminalized, marginalized, or reduced to struggle, Black history breaks the cycle of internalized oppression. It counters the lie that we are inherently dangerous, lazy, or unworthy. It tells us that we are powerful, intelligent, creative, and essential. It gives us names, dates, stories, inventions, and legacies that we can hold up like mirrors—finally seeing ourselves reflected in something other than pain.
And that reflection matters.
Because for generations, many Black Americans have been taught—directly and indirectly—to see themselves as a problem. School systems barely touch on Black achievements unless it’s Martin Luther King Jr. or Rosa Parks, and even then, the depth of their resistance is sanitized. Entire decades of progress, invention, entrepreneurship, and innovation are omitted from the classroom. So Black youth grow up not knowing who Garrett Morgan, Mae Jemison, Percy Julian, Shirley Chisholm, or Benjamin Banneker are. They grow up unaware that their lineage includes people who built nations, discovered elements, fought wars, cured diseases, led revolutions, and ran businesses.
Without that knowledge, they internalize the only story they’re told—that they’re “less than.”
Black history interrupts that script.
It says, “No, you’re not less than. You’ve always been more.” It gives us back our narrative. Our pride. Our legacy. It allows us to walk into a room with our heads held high, not because we want to be better than anyone else, but because we finally remember that we belong.
Representation matters. And not just in textbooks—but on screen, in politics, in literature, in fashion, in boardrooms, and beyond. We need more shows like The Cosby Show, which, for many, was the first time a Black family was shown as loving, professional, intelligent, and normal—not as a joke or a tragedy. We need more Black-ish, more A Different World, more shows that highlight everyday Black life with depth, humor, complexity, and joy.
Instead, what we see far too often in entertainment is the repetition of trauma and crime. Black characters are gang members, drug dealers, sidekicks, comic relief, or background noise. When we scroll through Netflix, Hulu, or Disney+, we rarely see Black joy. We rarely see Black love that isn’t rooted in dysfunction. We rarely see Black success stories that aren’t based on overcoming poverty or abuse. We deserve better.
And so do our children.
Representation is not a luxury—it is a lifeline. It shapes what young people believe is possible for their lives. If all they ever see are negative portrayals, how can they believe in something different? Black history and accurate representation give them permission to dream bigger, do better, and be more.
When you teach a child their people invented the traffic light, developed blood transfusion methods, wrote poetry that changed nations, and challenged laws that denied humanity, you light a fire in them. When they see a character on screen that looks like them succeeding without trauma being the central plotline, they feel seen.
Visibility breeds possibility.
That’s why this matters. Because Black people deserve to see themselves in every light—in fullness, in variety, in truth. We are not a monolith. We are vast and brilliant and complex. We are not just the struggle. We are the strength that came through it.
Black history is not just about the past—it’s about what becomes possible when the truth is finally told.
Employment Discrimination and Economic Oppression
Let’s talk about jobs.
Let’s talk about what it really means to apply for hundreds of positions and never hear back—not because you’re not qualified, but because your resume reveals too much. Because your name “sounds Black.” Because your experiences are connected to historically Black schools or community programs. Because the hiring manager doesn’t see value in your background. Because they see your skin before they see your skillset.
Employment discrimination is real. It’s not always loud or obvious. It doesn’t always show up in slurs or hate speech. Sometimes, it’s the subtle silence of being passed over. The rejection email that says “We’ve decided to go in a different direction” when you know you were the best candidate. The interview that goes well until they see your hair. The promotion that never comes even though you’ve trained the person who got it. The job posting that asks for “diverse candidates,” but the workplace still looks like a gated community.
This country loves to pretend that jobs are awarded purely by merit. But if merit were truly the measure, Black people wouldn’t still be at the bottom of the economic ladder. The truth is that our economy is rigged against us from the moment we enter it. From how we’re trained, to who we know, to what rooms we’re allowed into—opportunity is not equal.
And when you can’t get a job, how do you feed your family?
Some people turn to crime—not out of a desire to harm, but out of desperation. Others suffer silently under the crushing weight of rejection, watching their mental health deteriorate as they try to survive in a system designed to exclude them. Others—like me—get creative.
I once made a waterproof sign out of duct tape, paint sticks, and cardboard. It read: “Single mom in desperate need of help.” I stood outside, in the rain and the cold, not because I lacked education or drive, but because the system kept slamming the door in my face. I’ve been the woman with all the right skills and none of the access. I’ve seen my worth questioned not because of my resume, but because of my race, my motherhood, and my truth.
When we talk about economic oppression, we’re not just talking about poverty. We’re talking about systems designed to keep Black people struggling—on purpose. From redlining to underfunded schools, from banking discrimination to wage gaps, from predatory loans to the targeting of Black neighborhoods with liquor stores and payday lenders—this is structural.
Even entrepreneurship, which should be a path to freedom, is another minefield. Starting your own business sounds empowering until you realize that Black businesses receive only a tiny fraction of venture capital, bank loans, and community investment. And when we do launch, many of us don’t have generational wealth to fall back on. We don’t have safety nets. We don’t have networks of people who can buy in bulk, invest, or refer others.
We have to build everything from the ground up—while people steal our style, our slogans, our culture, and our creativity.
People love Black culture—our music, our fashion, our slang—but they refuse to support Black ownership. That’s not just hypocrisy. That’s economic warfare. They want our rhythm, not our rights. Our brilliance, not our businesses.
And this is how the cycle repeats. Black people pushed to the margins, told to pull themselves up by the bootstraps, while those very bootstraps are cut off at the source. It’s not that we’re not working hard. It’s that we’re fighting a game where the rules were written to keep us from winning.
Every time a job is denied, every time a loan is rejected, every time a shop in a Black neighborhood gets replaced by another chain store that doesn’t hire locals, it’s another form of economic violence. And we need to start calling it that.
Because economic oppression doesn’t just limit our wealth—it limits our health, our hope, and our legacy.
Equity vs. Equality
People love to say, "We treat everyone equally." It sounds noble. It sounds fair. But in practice, it’s often a cover for complacency. Because equality without equity is a lie. It assumes that we all start from the same point on the track. It ignores how much some of us have been held back before the race even began.
Let’s say two homeless people walk into a shelter. One is white, carrying two bags filled with clothes, toiletries, and snacks—resources handed to him earlier by a nonprofit. The other is Black, with absolutely nothing but the clothes on his back. If the shelter gives each person one bag of food and one bag of clothing, that’s equality. But only one of them now has enough to survive comfortably. The other still doesn’t have what he needs. That’s the difference.
Equality gives everyone the same thing. Equity gives people what they need to have a fair shot.
You can’t ignore history, racism, generational poverty, and discrimination—and then claim that handing out the same help to everyone is just. Because the damage hasn’t been the same. The barriers haven’t been the same. The access hasn’t been the same. And therefore, the solutions cannot be the same.
We need to stop pretending that giving someone a band-aid is helpful when they’re bleeding from a bullet wound. Black communities need more than charity—we need justice.
Equity asks: Where are you starting from? What have you already endured? What do you need to catch up—not just to survive, but to thrive?
It’s the same reason why educational support must look different in schools with high poverty rates. It’s the same reason why Black-owned businesses need targeted investments. It’s the same reason why communities that have been underfunded for decades need more than “equal” budget lines.
Equity is about truth-telling. And truth makes people uncomfortable—especially those who benefit from the silence.
That’s why diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) programs are under attack. Not because they’re unfair—but because they make fairness visible. They make the unspoken truths public. And that visibility threatens those who’ve long held power without ever having to question why.
White privilege doesn’t want to share power—it just wants to look like it is. That’s why so many institutions are quick to form DEI committees, but slow to implement real change. They want a Black person in the picture, not in the boardroom. They want to say the right things, without having to do the hard things. And the hard thing is equity.
Because equity challenges the idea that success is solely about hard work. It says: Maybe some people have worked just as hard—if not harder—and were never given the same tools. It says: We can’t move forward if we don’t address who’s been held back.
That scares people. That threatens the illusion of meritocracy.
And yet, equity is the only path to justice. It’s the only way to create a society where everyone has the same chance—not just in theory, but in reality. If your system only works for the privileged, it’s not a system worth preserving. If your solutions don't acknowledge the wound, they aren’t solutions at all.
Equity is not about handouts. It’s about leveling a field that was deliberately tilted for centuries. It’s about redistributing not just resources, but opportunity. It’s about restoring dignity to people who have been told to wait their turn, sit quietly, and be grateful for crumbs.
We don’t want crumbs anymore. We want a seat at the table. And not just to decorate it—but to help design it.
Because until equity becomes the standard—not just the slogan—equality will remain an illusion.
White History Is U.S. History. Where Is Ours?
American schools teach white history all year. Black history gets 28 days—if that. And in many districts, even those 28 days are watered down, stripped of depth, sanitized, or skipped entirely. It’s not Black history that’s being centered; it’s Black trauma—and even that is barely told. Children may hear about slavery and maybe Martin Luther King Jr., but they are rarely taught the richness, resistance, brilliance, and breadth of Black history.
White history is taught as the default. The Founding Fathers, the Revolutionary War, the signing of the Constitution, the Industrial Revolution, the space race—each told through a Eurocentric lens. White figures are celebrated as heroes, innovators, and visionaries. Their mistakes are softened, their legacies protected. Entire chapters in U.S. history books glorify colonialism and manifest destiny while glossing over the genocide, slavery, and exploitation that made those “victories” possible.
Meanwhile, Black contributions are treated as footnotes—if they’re acknowledged at all.
Our children grow up seeing history as something they happened after, not something they helped shape. And that matters. Because if you don’t see yourself in the story of your country, you’re made to feel like a guest in a home your ancestors helped build.
We need to change that.
Our children need to see themselves in the textbooks—not just as victims, but as visionaries. They need to know that their history doesn’t begin with chains—it begins with power. It begins with engineers building pyramids before Europe had castles. It begins with spiritual systems, complex societies, and economic empires. It includes global trade routes, surgical innovations, literary movements, and scientific breakthroughs.
They need to learn about:
Black Wall Street: the thriving Black business district in Tulsa, Oklahoma, destroyed by white mobs in 1921—not because it failed, but because it succeeded.
Shirley Chisholm: the first Black woman elected to Congress and the first to seek the Democratic nomination for President of the United States.
Katherine Johnson: the NASA mathematician whose calculations helped launch astronauts into orbit—and bring them home safely.
The Harlem Renaissance: a cultural explosion of Black creativity that gave us Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, Duke Ellington, and so many others.
Mansa Musa: the 14th-century emperor of Mali, often called the richest person in world history, whose wealth and generosity stunned the world and whose reign was marked by scholarship, trade, and architectural achievement.
This is not just “Black history.” This is world history. Human history. American history. And yet, it’s barely taught.
We ask Black children to pledge allegiance to a flag, memorize a Constitution, and sing patriotic songs about a country that has consistently refused to tell the truth about their ancestors. We ask them to excel in schools that often ignore their existence. We ask them to feel pride in a place that refuses to fully acknowledge their past, their pain, and their power.
This isn’t just an educational failure—it’s a psychological one. A spiritual one. Because identity is shaped by story. And when the story you’re told about yourself is incomplete—or erased altogether—it leaves holes that shame will fill.
If American schools truly valued inclusion, Black history would not be optional or seasonal. It would be embedded in the curriculum year-round, because Black people have been embedded in the building of this nation since before its founding.
Teaching Black history is not about guilt. It’s about truth. And healing. And justice.
Until our stories are told fully and unapologetically, America will never truly be whole. You cannot claim liberty and justice for all while actively suppressing the history of millions of people who helped create the very liberties you celebrate.
So we ask again: Where is our history?
Because if white history is considered American history, then so is ours. And it’s time our nation starts acting like it.
Retraining the Mind
The mind is a powerful tool. It can build nations or destroy them. It can be a cage or a key. And for centuries, this country has used education, religion, and media to mold Black minds—not for freedom, but for control.
From the moment we’re born, we are taught—explicitly or silently—that whiteness is the default, the standard, the goal. That our skin is too dark, our hair too coarse, our names too difficult. That our emotions are too loud, our bodies too much, our presence too intimidating. These messages do not start in adulthood. They are seeded early, reinforced daily, and passed down generationally until they begin to feel like truth.
But they are not truth.
They are lies crafted by a system that fears what we might become if we knew our worth. Because a confident, self-aware Black person is a threat to every institution built on their silence.
That’s why retraining the mind is revolutionary.
It means breaking up with the lies we were raised on. It means confronting how even our own families, churches, teachers, and mentors may have unknowingly passed down distorted beliefs—beliefs rooted in survival, fear, and colonial programming. It means understanding that the shame we carry about our appearance, our history, our struggle, and even our brilliance, was placed there by design.
Retraining the mind requires four steps:
1. Acknowledging how upbringing shapes self-perception
Children absorb the world around them before they can speak it. If they grow up in environments where Blackness is associated with pain, poverty, or punishment, they internalize those beliefs. If they rarely see themselves celebrated, affirmed, or shown in roles of success and leadership, they begin to shrink.
Retraining the mind starts by naming this truth: My thoughts were shaped by systems that never wanted me to succeed. That recognition is not weakness. It’s the beginning of strength.
2. Challenging negative thought patterns
We must challenge the whispers in our own minds that say, “I’m not good enough,” “I don’t belong,” “I’ll never make it.” These thoughts didn’t come from nowhere—they came from years of hearing no, seeing exclusion, and watching others be rewarded while we were ignored. But what enters the mind can also be removed from it.
We ask ourselves: Who told me this? And why did I believe them?
3. Replacing them with affirmations of Black strength, beauty, and resilience
Once we identify the false narratives, we rewrite them. We replace “I’m too much” with “I am powerful.” We replace “I’ll never succeed” with “I am built for greatness.” We speak life into ourselves every day—out loud, in the mirror, through journaling, through art, through prayer, through protest.
Affirmation is not vanity. It is self-defense in a society that constantly attacks our identity.
4. Rewiring our brains to believe in our excellence
This is the science of healing. Through consistent effort and repetition, the brain can form new pathways. This process—called neuroplasticity—means we can literally change the way we think, feel, and respond to the world. But it takes time. It takes intention. And it often takes help.
That’s where therapy, particularly cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT), comes in. Therapy helps us identify patterns and break them. It gives us tools to rebuild our self-worth, reframe our thoughts, and reconnect with our true identity. It is not weakness to seek help. It is wisdom. Because the burden of generational trauma is too heavy to carry alone.
Retraining the mind is not just personal—it’s communal.
We need spaces where we can learn, unlearn, and re-learn together. Spaces that celebrate Blackness without apology. Spaces where Black children are told, “You are enough just as you are.” Spaces where Black men can cry and Black women can rest. Where Black queer folks can breathe. Where Black creativity is nurtured, not stolen. Where we don’t have to explain ourselves, code-switch, or shrink to fit.
These spaces are sacred. They are necessary. They are our resistance.
Because freedom doesn’t start with laws. It starts with the mind. If the system can keep us mentally enslaved, it doesn’t need chains. But once we free our minds—once we truly believe in our own beauty, brilliance, and potential—no system, no lie, no oppression can hold us back.
Conclusion: Why Black History Must Be Taught More Than Ever
Black history is not just about the past. It’s about the present, and most importantly, the future. It is not simply a timeline of events; it is a blueprint of resilience, a compass for liberation, and a mirror that reflects our true identity—not what society has told us to be, but who we actually are.
It is a tool for survival, a language of resistance, and a path to healing. In a world that constantly tries to erase, appropriate, or rewrite the contributions of Black people, Black history is the foundation we must return to over and over again to remember: we have always mattered.
When Black children are taught Black history—real Black history—they begin to understand that their existence is not an accident. That their brilliance is not rare. That their beauty is not conditional. That their greatness is not new—it is inherited. They learn that their story didn’t start in slavery, and it won’t end in struggle.
Black history tells Black children:
“You are not what they say you are. You are everything they fear you might become—brilliant, powerful, unstoppable.”
And that is why systems built on oppression want to keep it buried. Because knowledge is power, and power in the hands of the oppressed is the beginning of revolution.
We must fight to keep Black history alive and taught in every classroom, every curriculum, every media platform, every community, and every home. Not as a “nice to have,” but as a necessity. Not just during Black History Month, but every single day. Because for centuries, white history has had a monopoly on the narrative. It’s time for a full correction—not just an inclusion, but an elevation of Black voices and Black truths.
When Black history is removed, downplayed, or oversimplified, it becomes easier to devalue Black lives. That’s why laws are being proposed to ban discussions of racism in schools. That’s why certain politicians fear “critical race theory” without even understanding what it is. That’s why books by Black authors are being pulled from shelves. They want silence—not progress. Comfort—not truth.
But we are not here to make the world comfortable with injustice.
We are here to shine light. To tell the stories. To lift the names of our ancestors. To speak loudly where they once whispered in fear. We are here to teach our children who they are before the world convinces them otherwise.
Because the stakes are too high. When a child doesn’t know their worth, they internalize what society gives them. When a child doesn’t know their history, they adopt someone else’s version of themselves. When a community is disconnected from its past, it becomes vulnerable to manipulation, violence, and invisibility.
We cannot afford to let that happen.
And it’s not just about schools. Black history must live in museums, in films, in songs, in fashion, in protests, in poetry, in churches, and in conversation. It must live in the way we walk, the way we parent, the way we build businesses, the way we show up in this world. It must be woven into the very fabric of American identity—because it always has been.
Until Black history is recognized as American history, we will continue to live in a country divided—not just by race or color, but by truth itself.
And if we are ever going to heal this nation—truly heal—we have to start by telling the truth.
That’s why Black history must not only be taught—it must be protected, funded, centered, and celebrated.
Because it is through knowing who we were…
that we remember who we are…
and decide who we will become.
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