Recently, I revisited an old interview with Morgan Freeman that added another layer to this conversation. In the clip, he was asked why he did not support Black History Month. His response was direct. He questioned why Black history should be condensed into a single month, especially the shortest month of the year. He asked the interviewer, who identified as Jewish, which month was Jewish History Month. When the interviewer said there was none and that he did not want one, Freeman replied that he did not want a Black History Month either. His reasoning was simple: Black history is American history.
He also said something that has stayed with me. When asked how to address racism, he responded by saying we should stop defining each other by race. “Stop calling me a Black man, and I’ll stop calling you a white man. I’m Morgan Freeman. You’re whoever you are.” His argument was that constant labeling reinforces division.
Whether someone agrees with him or not, his position forces reflection. If history is meant to be integrated into the national narrative, does isolating it into one month unintentionally separate it? And if heritage is living, what does it look like outside of a commemorative frame?
I first encountered the “heritage” reframing through social media, which says something in itself. So many of my recent realizations have started on a screen. That makes me question whether I need more in-person dialogue and fewer algorithms shaping my reflection. Anyway…
One specific video that challenged my thinking wasn’t about a celebrity or a public debate—it was about a student’s reality in a college classroom. I mentioned in my last post how an African woman came to America for her education and chose to identify as “Other” on her official forms. Her professor was immediately dismissive; he didn’t like that she was stepping outside the narrative he understood. He told her quite plainly that she couldn’t do that—insisting that she was Black and African American. This interaction stuck with me because it highlights how identity and history are often “contained” by those who think they already know the story. It’s not that the professor was trying to erase her, but he was certainly trying to simplify her, and that is where the narrative becomes skewed.
This containment is exactly what I feel when I think about how Black History Month is structured. When we confine a people’s history to a single calendar slot, we unintentionally limit the narrative and give the world a very narrow, often skewed viewpoint of what it means to be Black or African. It even makes me question my own place in these categories. I have often felt the urge to check “Other” on forms when “African American” was the only choice, because who is to say I am directly from Africa? The student from Africa rejected the label because it didn’t fit her reality, and I often question the label because it feels like a container I didn’t build for myself. We are more than a single month or a pre-selected checkbox, and seeing that professor try to force her back into a box made me realize how much of our identity is being “managed” rather than actually seen.
In that moment, I acknowledged a fear I had. I hesitated to repost the video. I hesitated because I knew my perspective would not mirror the collective. I knew it would sound different. And even though my audience is mostly friends and family, that made it heavier. I froze because posting it would mean giving my voice shape. It would mean taking a stance. It would mean stepping out from quiet observation into ownership of what I believe.
There is a part of me that feels called to challenge the status quo. I feel it deeply. But that kind of calling requires courage. And in that moment, I felt the tension between who I am becoming and the comfort of staying silent. That tension made me pause. I had contained myself.
Another pattern I have observed online feels quieter but powerful. A creator will look into the camera and say, “This is for my Black people,” and then say nothing else. Just a look. A subtle expression. Thousands of people understand immediately. The comment section fills with shared interpretation.
That unspoken understanding is heritage too.
It is shared context. Shared humor. Shared memory. A cultural shorthand that does not require explanation. That kind of connection contradicts the idea that we are disconnected. It suggests awareness, even unity.
My issue is not whether connection exists. The issue is what we do with it.
Does it remain a moment of relatability on a platform? Or does it become collaboration, investment, organization, and creation? Frustration about historical injustice is understandable. But frustration alone does not create legacy. Strategy does. Community does. Intention does.
I have also been thinking about the structure of Black History Month itself. Historically, it began as Negro History Week in 1926, established by historian Carter G. Woodson to ensure that Black contributions were formally studied and recognized in schools. It expanded to a month in 1976. That context matters. It was created as corrective visibility within an educational system that ignored Black contributions.
But visibility is not the same as vitality anymore.
Every February, classrooms revisit the same names and milestones. Important names. Necessary milestones. Yet I find myself asking: what does Black history look like in motion? What are we cultivating now?
This year, I did not prioritize Black History Month in my classroom the way I have in previous years. That decision forced me to interrogate my own habits. Why was I repeating the same figures? Why was I centering past struggle without equally centering present innovation? As an English teacher, my curriculum is already shaped by what is included and what is omitted. If I am intentional, I can expand the lens beyond a single narrative.
And not just for Black students. I teach Asian students, Hispanic students, African students, Black American students. All of them deserve a fuller picture of their histories and contributions. If I am serious about heritage being living, then it cannot be selective or seasonal.
That is why I am building something more intentional. I am creating a category called “Black Heritage Awareness” to document what I learn throughout the year. Not commentary alone, but research. Exploration of Caribbean histories. African dispersion traditions. The distinctions within Black American identity. The overlaps and divergences across the diaspora.
I do not want to stop at surface expressions like hairstyles or food, even though those are meaningful cultural markers. I want to understand economic systems, community structures, spiritual traditions, artistic movements, language patterns, innovation, and collaboration.
If heritage is living, then awareness must be ongoing.
This is not about dismissing history. It is about refusing to confine it. It is about asking a harder question than “What happened to us?”
It is asking: What are we choosing to create now?
Because if we are here, then we have agency. And agency demands construction, not just commemoration.
Happy Black Heritage Awareness
