When Carter G. Woodson created Black History Week back in 1925,
could he have imagined how it would develop in the United States
more than 75 years later?
Conceived during the height of American apartheid, Woodson not
only meant for this month to be a time of reflection upon the great
historical accomplishments of people of Afrikan descent but also a
time of renewal in the fight for justice and equality.
Unfortunately, like most youth educated in the United States, I
did not receive news of the full utility of Black History
Month.
Each February, when I was in school, we simply began to talk
about the peaceful leadership of Martin Luther King Jr., the silent
resistance of good ol’ Rosa Parks or the athletic prowess of
Jackie Robinson. During the month, every subject, with the possible
exception of math, was given an African spin, and every lesson was
an opportunity for the teacher to ask a new question from the newly
ordered Black History Month quiz-game.
To create an aesthetic consistent with the month’s theme,
walls usually featuring chipped paint, cracks and old handprint
smudges now were covered with pictures of scatteredly colored
African heroes and Kente cloth.
Not to be confined within the walls of school, Black History
Month pervaded my most intimate moments at home. I can remember
cuddling up with my mother on the couch, watching one of the
frequent episodes of “Eyes on the Prize,” the
ever-running documentary of the Civil Rights Movement. I shuddered
at the horrifying scenes of police dogs devouring the legs of
elderly Southern church ladies as they marched through Selma,
Montgomery and Birmingham, Ala., with King.
All the while, my mom ““ who grew up in the South during
those turbulent times ““ sat with a confused look on her face
as if to ask, “Have we truly overcome?”
As I fast forward to my adulthood, my eyes have witnessed police
beatings on and off camera, racial uprisings, a stolen presidential
election, countless U.S. provoked wars over the control of
resources in the lands of others, welfare reform ““ which
exacerbated poverty situations for many ““ and tougher laws on
juvenile delinquents, which have sent many of my peers to the
penitentiary forever.
Since arriving at UCLA, I have endured David Horowitz’s
ads about the benefits of slavery to my people, racist bake sales,
police harassment, the school’s exploitation of workers, I
have heard that dreadful N-word a few times. But ““ ironically
enough ““ I haven’t seen too many of my people come in
as students.
In fact, as people of African descent become less and less a
part of UCLA’s student body, I honestly fear that one day,
there will be more buildings named after African people than actual
African students and faculty. Faced with such a prospect, I ask
myself and those who celebrate this month: Have we been wrong all
this time?
Rather than simply recalling our past, we actively should be
seeking inspiration from it to bring educational, economic and
political empowerment to our community and to ensure that all
people, regardless of their background, are given equality and
justice in this land called America.
That, in my opinion, is what Black History Month meant to Carter
G. Woodson, and that is what it should mean to all of us.
Barnes is a fourth-year African American studies
student.