Feb. 26, 2022, marks the 10-year anniversary of the killing of Trayvon Martin, a 17-year-old boy whose killing shook the country to its core and sparked the Black Lives Matter movement.
I was 11 years old at the time, and I can still remember the heaviness that I felt. I have grown up with a specific sense of death looming over me. It is a sense of death that connects me to people I will never get to meet. This feeling reminds me that it could have been one of my loved ones lost to this kind of violence. I know I am not the only one who feels this whenever we hear of another Black life taken too soon.
I grieve every time one of these stories makes it to the news. I grieve for the lives cut short and for the people who still had more love to give to those killed. These stories are wrapped in loss, and because they happen so frequently, we rarely get the time to process them fully.
Truth is, Black people have known this loss for so long. Scholars tell us that trauma is generational, and I can’t help but think that the loss that I have felt through these last 10 years grows on top of the grief of those before me. I’m so tired. It hurts to think about all the joy and laughter that has been stolen from Black families for hundreds of years.
This loss gives me reason to cherish the joy that I have the privilege to feel.
The more I learn about Black history, the more amazed I am at the feeling of Black joy. Black history shows us that grief and joy don’t have to be exclusive. Some of my favorite stories in Black history are the ones we rarely hear — about slaves singing, dancing and rejoicing amongst themselves at night. I love pictures of Black people smiling while using “Whites only” fountains during the era of segregation. I can feel the joy in these stories, while, at the same time, feeling so much anger at what my ancestors had to endure. Sometimes, it’s nice to get lost in moments like that, where Black joy pulls you in and holds you so tightly. These moments are some of the best in my life.
As I’ve developed an understanding of my Black identity, I grew to love seeing Black strangers in public. Without speaking, I felt seen and understood. For every Black person I see, there is a non-Black person asking how I know the person I just waved to in the grocery stores. This acknowledgement is one of the simplest forms of Black joy and something I can’t imagine life without. Some of my best friends have come from such small exchanges.
I realized the fullness of this joy about a month ago, waiting in line for air with a completely flat tire. I had been on the phone with my dad, trying to navigate this unexpected hurdle in my life, when I saw someone come up to my passenger door window. The person was an older Black man wearing a Miami Dolphins jersey, whose name I should have written down when he told me. I first refused his help but eventually accepted the offer when I realized how lost I truly was. He stayed with me as I tried and failed to put my spare tire on and then led me to an auto shop, where he helped me get new tires. I was on the verge of tears when he came to my window, but as we talked about our lives, I felt comforted.
This is the Black joy that has nurtured and protected me my entire life. Every Black person that is killed by a system that values punishment over Black lives had so much more joy like this to experience. They had so many more people to love and so many smiles to share.
This is what I am grieving because every death feels so personal. The thought that the moments of Black joy that I cherish so deeply could have not happened or could never happen again is terrifying. For this reason, I treasure those moments more than the idea of losing them scares me. Those moments matter, and more importantly, Black lives matter.
This Black History Month, I hope you find those moments of joy, even while changing a flat tire.
Marissa McClenton is a senior in environmental studies at the University of Delaware.
