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black history
Why GOP Attempts to Sanitize History Will Fail
History doesn’t disappear when you shut down a website, threaten a museum’s funding, or remove museum exhibits. We carry the past within us.
May 04, 2025
In March, U.S. President Donald Trump issued an executive order titled Restoring Truth and Sanity to American History, targeting the Smithsonian Institution and its museums—including the National Museum of African American History and Culture—for promoting “divisive narratives.” In doing so, Trump continues a pattern of erasing federal websites about notable African Americans and undermining institutions that honor our full national story.
Trump’s campaign echoes other recent efforts to whitewash the past. For example, Mississippi Gov. Tate Reeves proclaimed April as Confederate Heritage Month, and recognized Confederate Memorial Day as a state holiday—one of several Southern states that continue to honor the Confederacy. These endeavors are part of a coordinated attempt to revise the Confederacy’s racist history and diminish the impact of slavery in the Civil War.
Last month, reports emerged of historic artifacts being removed from the African American History Museum. In response, civil rights leaders have formed a coalition and will hold a “Freedom to Learn” campaign and march at the museum. They know what I do: that the GOP’s coordinated efforts to whitewash the past cannot erase the truth we carry within us.
I did not have to go to the Smithsonian’s National African American History Museum to learn this history; it is seared in my memory and encoded in my and this nation’s DNA.
As an African American originally from Memphis, Tennessee, I learned about our nation’s complicated history from a young age. I grew up in the city where Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated, where my parents were born under the yoke of Jim Crow segregation, and where cotton was king during slavery.
Some of that history I learned in school. Most of it came from my family who lived that history. They taught me not just to remember, but to bear witness.
Even the physical landscape of the South helped tell the story: Confederate monuments, parks, and highways named after Confederate generals. I saw the Confederate flag and “Riding with Forrest” bumper stickers, referencing Nathan Bedford Forrest, who helped found the Ku Klux Klan. They were everyday reminders of the brutal history of slavery that refused to stay buried.
I did not have to go to the Smithsonian’s National African American History Museum to learn this history; it is seared in my memory and encoded in my and this nation’s DNA. That’s why the GOP’s campaign to rewrite history will fail.
Recently, I visited D.C. with my 73-year-old mother. I was there to give a talk about my book, which examines how race and immigration status have affected access to healthcare. We visited the African American History Museum and Culture on a Monday. The line stretched outside, as it often does. Since opening in 2016, it has welcomed more than 12 million visitors—Black, white, young, old—each one seeking a fuller understanding of our shared past.
I had visited the museum before. But Trump’s latest threat made me want to return—and to bring my mom. As a child, she picked cotton and endured taunts from white kids as she and her siblings walked to their segregated school. She didn’t need the museum to validate her story. But it did. It also validated mine.
Inside, I stood with her in front of exhibits honoring W.E.B. DuBois and Ida B. Wells. Their legacy helped shape my career. As a sociologist, I teach about many of the historic events covered in the museum’s exhibits, which don’t shy away from the ugly contradictions of America’s founding ideals. Instead, they make them plain.
Etched inside the building is a quote from founding museum director Lonnie Bunch III: “[T]here is nothing more powerful… than a nation steeped in its history. And there are few things as noble as honoring our ancestors by remembering.”
That’s what this new wave of revisionism seeks to stop: truthful remembrance. But history doesn’t disappear when you shut down a website, threaten a museum’s funding, or remove museum exhibits. Despite banning books, stifling academic freedom, and targeting scapegoated groups that culminated in the genocide of European Jews, we still know about the Holocaust. Why? Because survivors carried that truth forward.
As we left the museum, another African American family was entering. The father asked me, half jokingly, “Have they changed anything in the museum yet?”
“No,” I said, “but that’s exactly why we came—before he [Trump] can.”
We smiled in shared acknowledgment. That exchange shows why the GOP’s efforts to erase the truth are sparking the opposite effect: a renewed urgency to preserve it.
Regardless of what happens to the museum or Confederate Memorial Day commemorations, that unfiltered history lives in us. In the words of James Baldwin, also etched on the museum’s walls: “The great force of history comes from the fact that we carry it within us, are unconsciously controlled by it… history is literally present in all that we do.”
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Our Anthem of Black and Queer Resistance Is Turned Up at Full Volume
Just as church hymns carried our ancestors through hardships, our music today carries forward the spirit of every Black, queer person who dared to dream of visibility and freedom.
Feb 28, 2025
Music has always been at the very heartbeat of Black culture. Through harmonies, we have found community. Through lyrics, we have found healing. Through dance, we have found freedom in our bodies. And through the drumbeat of music, we have found resistance.
From the spirituals sung by our ancestors on the very land I stand today, to the hymns sweetly sung in my childhood church, to the bass-rattling house music in gay clubs throughout Houston, music has always connected me to my culture. And suddenly, as things begin to feel more quiet on a national stage, I am reminded that the music of Black and queer voices must keep playing, louder than ever before.
I discovered this month that Black History Month quietly vanished from my Google Calendar. Pride was gone too—a so-called “small” omission that represents something much larger and more sinister. This quiet erasure of history is becoming commonplace in public and private spaces, and it speaks volumes. With the cancellation of the Gay Men’s Chorus at the Kennedy Center, the oppressive tides of “Don’t Say Gay” legislation, the transphobic rhetoric, the defunding of LGBTQ+ healthcare and art, and the anti-DEI movements trying their hardest to erase Black and queer identities, making noise remains an act of rebellion.
Black, queer music cannot be ignored or sanitized or whitewashed or undervalued for the next four years, which means Black, queer creators need to be paid, be on the main stages, be given the mic at the awards ceremonies, and be given their flowers for the culture they sustain.
But the history of Black music cannot be rewritten to fit dominant narratives because it is the history of resistance itself. Church hymns and spirituals carried prayers and codes for the enslaved. Blues gave us a place to voice the injustices we endured. Jazz was birthed from the need for freedom of expression. Hip-hop became our weapon to challenge our oppressors. And our many contributions—too often uncredited—built the foundation for rock, country, pop, house, dance, and so much more.
And queer artists have been pivotal to this story. Billy Strayhorn, Duke Ellington’s openly gay composer, brought undeniable brilliance to the jazz world. Billie Holiday turned her voice into a protest. Little Richard, known fondly as the “King of Rock and Roll,” shattered norms and sang about his desires with the kind of joy that felt revolutionary. Sylvester, the “Queen of Disco,” gave us revolutionary anthems of love and resilience while fighting on the frontlines of the HIV/AIDS epidemic. Gospel music would cease to exist if the Black, queer writers, singers, and composers were erased.
Even today, Black LGBTQ+ artists are breaking records and capturing the world’s attention. Big Freedia is the New Orleans “Queen of Bounce” whose music and style have been sampled by some of the biggest artists today. Lil Nas X is bending genres and expectations for Black male rappers. Doechii captivated everyone watching this year’s Grammys and used her speech as a message of hope for Black and queer creators. These artists are showing that the power of being visible and unrelenting in their truth extends far beyond music charts.
But here’s the truth we can’t ignore—many of the icons that came before them, or are their peers today, still have to hide who they were and are. Societal pressures and safety concerns force them into invisibility. And now fear remains that if billion-dollar industries are cowering to current political climates, what will that mean for Black, queer creators?
That is why it is so important to support Black and queer creators, through hiring, funding, streaming, and screaming their songs at the top of our lungs. Their music doesn’t just entertain; it liberates. It mends spirits and moves people to think, to feel, and to act. It’s an instrument of resistance and a tool to drown out this world’s hate. Black, queer music cannot be ignored or sanitized or whitewashed or undervalued for the next four years, which means Black, queer creators need to be paid, be on the main stages, be given the mic at the awards ceremonies, and be given their flowers for the culture they sustain.
When The Normal Anomaly started BQAF (Black Queer AF) Music Festival in Houston, Texas four years ago, it was not created to be a demonstration. We just believed the power of music could bring people together, and—since no one in Texas had done it before—to center it around Black, queer, and allied artists we loved seemed logical. Now, it is the track list to a freedom song so necessary to repeat to quiet the deafening sounds of hate and fear for the community.
That’s why we’re unapologetically taking up space and taking the stage at this year’s BQAF Music Festival, an all-Black queer and allied lineup. For our fourth iteration, our theme this year is VISIBILITY. This music festival is a love letter to our community and our message to the nation and the world—we won’t be erased or silenced. We will be seen, heard, felt, and celebrated. We are turning the volume all the way up—not just for Houston to hear, but for every person across this country who has been made to feel like their identity does not deserve respect or recognition.
We’ve built momentum as a community. Black, queer artists are out here breaking records, genres, and boundaries. And we will not halt this progress. Just as church hymns carried our ancestors through hardships, our music today carries forward the spirit of every Black, queer person who dared to dream of visibility and freedom. Together, we’ll send a message to every lawmaker and system working against us. They may try to silence us, but Black and queer music will always be louder.
As long as there is air in my lungs, I will have a song to sing that fills the silence with the beauty, resilience, and limitless brilliance of our culture.
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No Matter How Many Orders Trump Signs, Equality Is in Our History—and Our Future
While there have been attempts to quell the excitement surrounding Black History Month, our resolve has never been more steadfast. The fight for DEI is a fight for democracy itself.
Feb 28, 2025
As Black History Month comes to a close, the celebrations and acknowledgements have felt less vibrant and more reserved. It is whiplash inducing to witness how quickly the outcry of public, corporate, and political support for racial equality quickly reverted to misinformation, dog whistling, and hate, especially after January 20.
Since Inauguration Day, when executive orders to curtail diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) began raining down, a wave of fear has now hushed federal employees and even corporate behemoths. From workplaces retreating from DEI commitments to federal agencies banning identity-based observances, all throughout Black History Month no less, the signals are clear—our collective progress, which has been decades in the making, is under attack.
Around a week ago, President Donald Trump marked Black History Month at the White House by making an appearance at a reception. Yet during his speech, he made no mention of his anti-DEI policies that directly impacted those in the room with him. He never brought up the number of federal agencies that have banned celebrations related to MLK Jr. Day, Black History Month, Juneteenth, and other "special observances" to comply with his administration's directives. There was no mention of his recent fearmongering, insinuating the cause of a tragic plane crash over the Potomac was the fault of DEI. The threats to pull federal funding from schools over DEI programs were also oddly omitted. He was silent about the major corporations like Target, Walmart, and McDonald's that have scaled back or completely dismantled their DEI efforts under political-driven pressures. There was no comment on how Black History Month no longer exists on Google Calendars or how the U.S. Defense Department issued guidance declaring "identity months dead."
Black communities have carved paths forward, not just for themselves, but for democracy at large.
"Today, we pay tribute to the generations of Black legends, champions, warriors, and patriots who helped drive our country forward to greatness. And you really are great, great people," Trump said confidently.
But how can you truly pay tribute to these Black legends when you instruct others to rewrite, water down, or ignore their history of fighting against discrimination and racism? When you deny their life's work from continuing by dismantling the programs they helped build to better this nation? When you block opportunities to those from their community?
To deny our nation's businesses and institutions from providing DEI initiatives is to deny the progress that arose from centuries of resilience and resistance. And it's a willful act of revisionism to erase the stories, contributions, and sacrifices of Black Americans.
Slavery, segregation, and racism are not histories that should be kept secret; their impacts are still present and like any problem, cannot be solved by being ignored. America has never been a land of racial harmony. But it can never be one if we continue to believe that the best way to move beyond the legacies of racial hatred is to ignore them.
That is why DEI is so crucial to protect. It's a framework that ensures we acknowledge the truths of our history, fostering workplaces and educational systems that reflect the rich, multicultural fabric of our nation. Charles Chesnutt once wrote, "There is plenty of room for us all." This simple truth still holds. Acknowledging the painful complexities of our past does not diminish, it enriches—it creates space for all of us to grow together.
But instead of planting seeds for growth, many are burying their heads in the sand. The result? We see companies abruptly ending DEI programs, massive job cuts for diversity officers, and a national dialogue dominated by fear of "cancel culture" rather than confronting systemic inequities. This is emblematic of a broader issue—a culture that prioritizes comfort and status quo over change and discomfort.
To those retreating from DEI efforts, I ask—were you ever truly committed to them in the first place? At the heart of DEI is a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths about race, gender, disability, and other issues that our country and its institutions have tried to erase through discrimination and violence. Abandoning DEI measures thus means abandoning your colleagues, your students, your community members.
"The last administration tried to reduce all of American history to a single year, 1619. But under our administration, we honor the indispensable role Black Americans have always played in the immortal cause of another day, 1776," Trump said at the event. "We like 1776."
But this is just another example of ignoring history to better serve your own narrative. There would not be America's founding in 1776 if it were not for 1619 and the Black lives that built this nation. Black history began on this continent before America was even established as a country, and we can not rewrite that truth.
While there have been attempts to quell the excitement surrounding Black History Month, our resolve has never been more steadfast. The fight for DEI is a fight for democracy itself. This is not a story of retreat. It's merely another chapter in a grander story of resistance.
Black history is not solely about celebration; it's a living testament to resistance tethered to the pursuit of democratic ideals. Black communities have carved paths forward, not just for themselves, but for democracy at large. When we resist unconstitutional actions, racism, transphobia, homophobia, and sexism, we do so not just for ourselves but for the affirmative vision of what the world should look like. And that takes work. Hard work that cannot be accomplished by ignoring our history and the problems at hand. To retreat now, to claim ignorance or to ignore the issues would be a disservice to the shoulders we stand on and the generations that will come after us.
They cannot erase the history that has carried us this far, and they cannot silence our calls for equality. We persist.
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