It’s Black History Month. I wondered, what is so special about this month, that it was declared Black. History. Month.
It turns out that in 1926 Carter G. Woodson, whose inclusionary vision we owe this month to, chose February because both Abraham Lincoln and
Frederick Douglas were born on February 12 and February 14 respectively. He wanted to ensure that the tradition of celebrating Douglas’ birthday and
black communities would be paired with celebrating Lincoln’s.
Presently in this Black History Month, we may ask ourselves, what are we celebrating? We can still see negative portrayals of black people as threatening or dangerous, lazy, and less than others, which permeates the minds of all of us, including Black people themselves. This mentality manifests itself in an onslaught of brutality and violence against black lives everywhere.
As a black person, it’s demoralizing and exhausting. Likewise, in our efforts to have a critical inquiry into how we got here, we face censorship and
controversial bans on books, histories, truth-telling, and on life itself.
My people, Who are WE?
When you are sad and mad at the same time, you ask yourself strange questions. Sometimes, you find yourself going down a rabbit hole leading nowhere.
For me as an immigrant, black, South African man I ask myself: who am I in the context of America? North Carolina? Wake Forest?
I examine myself, asking: What tradition, people do I come from and how is that enfolding into my American experience? Who are my people in this new place?
I am convinced that I am not the first person to ask this question: who are my people, REALLY? That is why HISTORY is instructive and necessary.
History helps me to dig deep.
In this month of February, in the year 2024, I am asking a question that was asked before, by poets in Harlem a century ago. Under both similar and different social and political conditions, Langston Hughes asked this question. His answer is expressed in this poem called:
My People
Dream-singers,
Story-tellers,
Dancers,
Loud laughers in the hands of Fate—
My People.
Dish-washers,
Elevator-boys,
Ladies’ maids,
Crap-shooters,
Cooks,
Waiters,
Jazzers,
Nurses of babies,
Loaders of ships,
Porters,
Hairdressers,
Comedians in vaudeville
And band-men in circuses—
Dream-singers all,
Story-tellers all.
Dancers—
God! What dancers!
Singers—
God! What singers!
Singers and dancers,
Dancers and laughers.
Laughers?
Yes, laughers….laughers…..laughers—
Loud-mouthed laughers in the hands of Fate.
It was ordinary folks who inspired the poet Langston Hughes. The poet found his people in ordinary life. Ultimately, I think that is what is shared for me in this American context. Together I share with black and brown from all kinds of contexts, a camaraderie in perseverance, of pushing on, of even laughing in the hands of Fate.
May we then, too, this Black History Month, be inspired by ordinary folks here in this Town of Wake Forest. Let’s celebrate people who persevere in love and flourish in our community despite all else. Let’s also ask ourselves the hard questions of how we got here.
For me, it is a joy to join Olive Branch Baptist Church this month in serving and reading Scripture together. I’m grateful for their presence in our community. A great example of ordinary people doing extraordinary things.
Father Mawethu
