My Reflections on Black History Month

By: Olivia Gorum

Every February, we celebrate Black History Month, a month marked to honor and rejoice in the contributions African Americans have made to this country, as well as reflect on the hardships and continued struggle for racial justice. Growing up as a Black student in predominantly white schools, for as long as I can recount, February marked the beginning of a month-long period of discomfort. When I was in elementary school, it was the stares and whispers that seemed to heighten during Black History Month that first made me aware of the national observance. As a child, I could not understand why my teachers were suddenly teaching about figures who looked just like me. As sad as it may seem, I was so taken aback by learning about Black figures that my natural response was embarrassment and shame. I was so used to solely learning about white contributions, that this sudden switch was startling. 

As I progressed on to middle school, the alterations in my class curriculum coinciding with Black History Month only continued. In my English classes every year, come February, we would read one book usually written by a white author highlighting the Black experience through their own eyes. Looking back, I now understand why I could never seem to relate to these characters, as too often these books were written to appeal to my white peers. The characters were usually very one-dimensional, and though we shared the Black identity, I never felt that my experience was truly reflected in the books we read.

 For me, Black History Month has always been a time of both invisibility and hypervisibility. Invisibility, in that the sudden effort to acknowledge Black culture and literature only highlighted the absence of Black contributions during the rest of the year. And hypervisibility, in that there is an expectation that I, and the few other Black students at my school, must speak on behalf of all of our race. Though it might be the product of attending predominantly white schools, the burden of educating others during Black History Month has always fallen on my shoulders. 

Since I have started high school, I have come to fully embrace my identity. Black History Month is now a time where I often marvel at the great lengths taken by my ancestors, and I take the time to acknowledge how their sacrifices have enabled me to access so many opportunities. But I feel like this is despite my school environment, and not because of it. Perhaps if schools incorporate and celebrate Black contributions and literature every month, instead of just acknowledging them in the month of February, I, and other Black students, can finally feel seen.