Juneteenth Reflections on Belonging: Timeless Medicinal Wisdom Then & Now

While growing up, history seemed to be spoken about as a medicinal ointment of sorts. It was asserted by a generation of parents and caretakers in survival mode who were wary as a result of the deeply flawed construct they’d inherited as the descendants of African human trafficking victims. Know your history had become a cultural proverb that hoped to defy second-class citizenry and spark enough pride in children to stave off the humiliation that often accompanies the Black experience.

The proverb came with caveats that were often contradictory for Black girls, were difficult to decode, and had little to do with safe environments or the culture of belonging we need during early adolescence in order to thrive. If the popular mantra had fine print back then, I imagine it would read: Know your history…sometimes. Know the part we want Black girls to know. Know your history on demand for reasons unrelated to your true freedom or personal development process. Know your history only through the methods that convince others you’re smart and therefore defying harmful tropes about Black/African-American people. Our history is not about your feelings.

Know it or else.

The complications of historical trauma have played a major role in harming relationships in Black/African-American families for generations. History was spoken about as an attempt to heal, but in a world that refused to see Black/African American people as whole people deserving of human rights, very little was spoken about the grieving process that accompanies knowing our story. Historical trauma still puts a spin on Black/African-American women’s rights to process heavy and heartfelt emotions at a pace conducive to our healing and the radical self-care required to navigate the persisting historic ask to selflessly nurture the collective before we nurture ourselves.

Each time an exasperated adult, a competitive adversary—often who had more access to educational materials and permission to follow their curiosity and interests with adults who had the capacity to be supportive—or, worse, an intentional harmer inflicted this axiom as a control tactic or indictment with sharp edges, these became a set of greatest hits that settled into my subconscious. Between the fear of shame it eventually instilled and the lack of access and environments to learn wisdom from so many incredible historic advocates, activists, and heroes in a way that I could freely explore, I was convinced there was no joy related to the topic to be had.

I eventually began the arduous journey of unlearning stereotypes, ditching tropes, scrubbing away harmful narratives, finding my voice, and studying wellbeing to make space for trauma-informed transformation. My takeaway is this: With or without support, it can take a lifetime for those recovering from adversity to feel restored enough to learn about the role adversity and historic trauma played in ways they are able. We don’t just need books; we need people who embrace us with care, who are willing to break bread with us, hold our hand or give us a hug when we’re terrified or need a friend, and spend quality time growing with us as equals.

We belong is the modern-day proverb, and I’m here for it.

For many, Juneteenth—an important holiday in the United States that commemorates the emancipation of African Americans from chattel slavery—marks the collective effort to dismantle second-class citizenry and opens the floodgates of truth-telling that centers the humanity of our lived experience.

The time it took for the news to reach people in brutal bondage in Texas is a standing reminder of the present-day barriers to equity that Black/African American people confront on a day-to-day basis in work and life. Too many people have convinced themselves they are a safe place for Black/African-American women. They forget that using history, science, education, religion, and politics as supremacy tools sends a message that they haven’t yet embodied habits that make allyship a lifestyle.

Quasi solidarity and faux advocacy just won’t cut it.

It should come as little surprise that Black/African-American women are decoupling quasi solidarity and diplomacy under duress in an effort to purge mattering less, a normalized term and condition that’s hidden in everyday social structures.

As for wishful thinking on a way around these complicated circumstances and experiences that shape the lives and identities of Black/African-American women, we inevitably learn early on that avoidance, bypassing, and diplomacy come as great personal sacrifices. The way through is a trauma-informed intervention in the form of truth-telling that centers our impossible journey and gives us the time, space, support, resources, tools, policies, and unequivocal wins we need to be seen, to be heard, to be respected, to retrieve our joy, and to write a new ending to our story.

If you’re an ally, there is no later-gram—prioritize your orientation to action.

Advocates, it’s not the job of Black/African-American people to do the heavy emotional labor of trauma-informed awareness and antiracism education. Too many organizations and businesses that haven’t done the work to make anti-racism policies permanent turn this sacred cultural day into a bargaining chip to promote faux care and bank on a hopeful social stir that boosts monetary gain. That exploitative pattern is old news. Each time the program I’m spearheading makes an impact, I leave it where it belongs: in the past. This Juneteenth I’m leaning into solidarity by facilitating Introduction to PACEs Science because access holds a key to building a shared language with advocates, activists, educators, and organizational change agents so we can finally center trauma-informed equity for all where all people thrive.

Interested in registering for the 2023 Creating Resilient Communities program? Join PACEs Connection to receive updates through our newsletter or reach out to kevans@pacesconnection.com.

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