Dreaming of a Black Future

Practicing hope in a time of pessimism

I’m dreaming of a Black future. Increasingly, that feels like an impossible dream. It feels like we are mired in a nightmare, where we are returned again and again to a period of our history marked by pain and trauma. This nightmare, though, is not set in our high school classroom or our childhood homes. Instead, we are forced to relive the Black nadir, the pre-Roe era, the pre-marriage equality era, and the global turmoil that preceded World War II.

Around the world, Black and Brown peoples are being displaced and murdered to protect Western agendas and advance global White supremacy. Israel continues to use Hamas’ terrorist attack in October as cover for the genocide and displacement of Palestinians, ramping up its attack on Rafah after advising civilians to evacuate to that area. Yet the US has once again vetoed a UN ceasefire resolution.

Millions of Congolese have been displaced and killed in the Democratic Republic of Congo, where an armed rebel group has been vying for control of territory that is rich in the minerals used to manufacture our smartphones and electric vehicles. Western colonization and interference in Haiti have left the country mired in a vicious cycle of poverty, famine, and violence since the 2021 assassination of President Jovenel Moïse.

Here in the US, we are facing the real possibility that Amerikkka will re-elect a White nationalist who has been judged by its courts as liable for sexual abuse, defamation, and fraud. The Supreme Court continues its attempted rollback of the hard-won gains of the civil rights, women’s rights, and LGBTQIA+ rights movements. A few days ago, a group of masked Neo-Nazis walked through the downtown Nashville. And in the week since Beyoncé released two country music songs from her upcoming project, there has been a wave of overt racism and misogyny from White country music fans, with one actor comparing her to a dog marking territory. Leave it to White supremacy to take over an art form rooted in the Black experience and then to act like Black people don’t belong there. It reminds me of what Amandla Stenberg once said: “They love our culture, just not us.”

It’s tiring. And it often feels hopeless. So during this Black History Month, I’m trying to tap into a powerful resource that fueled my ancestors’ resistance to an oppressive world: hope. I’m practicing hope by dreaming of a Black future. I am dreaming of a feature where:

• We no longer have to prove we belong.

• Our access to life, liberty, and happiness is not based upon our race, gender identity, sexual orientation, etc.

• Our trauma has been healed, our stolen labor has been compensated, and our stolen resources have been returned to us and to our ancestral homeland.

• We can take up space and live into our giftedness without worrying about whether White people will be intimidated and threatened by us.

• We are healthy, where we no longer top the statistics on chronic disease and early death, where we have access to health providers that genuinely care about our well-being.

• We stop shouldering the needs of the world and commit ourselves to our individual and collective care and thriving.

• We no longer have to exert the energy to shatter glass ceilings because the only ceilings that exist are the ones we choose.

• Our stress response does not become activated at the sight of police officers.

• The faces of imprisoned people are not predominantly ours.

• Teachers and schools recognize and nurture the genius of every one of our children because they understand that every child is capable of genius.

• We love our embodiment fiercely and no longer feel compelled to sacrifice our health and finances to achieve body and hair ideals that are rooted in White supremacist patriarchy.

If it’s true that what we practice grows, I’m going to celebrate Black History Month by practicing the Black future that I want to see and praying that it’s existence is not limited to sci-fi/fantasy. I’m doing that, in part, by remembering the stories of my elders and ancestors. I’m re-reading books by Black authors such as Maya Angelou, Alice Walker, bell hooks, and Toni Cade Bambara. I’m re-learning history that I’ve previously studied. I’m listening to elders’ stories about how they managed to maintain hope when everything seemed hopeless. And I’m reclaiming the appreciation for country music that I developed as a teenager living in Nashville by listening to Black country artists.

I’m paying deep attention to the change and progress that we have made, remembering not to take for granted what was once unfathomable: a White person holding a door open for me; an integrated pool; White students learning from Black, Asian, and Latiné teachers; Native American storylines becoming more commonplace in books and television. It’s not enough, but each represents a sign that we can move the needle forward. Each represents the fulfillment of what was once someone’s hope. So let’s keep hoping.

In Case You Missed It

This week, I was featured in a New York Times article about Lent, “What We Give Up Makes Us Who We Are.” Even without the nod to my work, it’s a great article about the meaning of Lent and how modern Christians are reclaiming and reframing the tradition.