From left to right: Dr. Noelle Trent, President & CEO of the Museum of African American History, Boston and Nantucket; Hon. Byron Rushing, Former MA State Representative; Ron Mitchell, Publisher and Editor of The Bay State Banner; Former MA State Representative; L'Merchie Frazier, Visual activist, public historian, educator, and Executive Director of Creative / Strategic Planning for SPOKE Arts; JerriAnne Boggis, Executive Director, Black Heritage Trail of New Hampshire.
Two weeks ago, I had the honor of participating in a GBH event marking the 60th anniversary of The Bay State Banner and the 100th anniversary of Black History Month. It was a gathering rooted in legacy, journalism, activism, and truth. I shared the stage with some of Boston’s most influential cultural leaders, including the Honorable Byron Rushing, a lifelong civil rights activist.
The conversation centered on current efforts to erase Black history from public spaces and from our schools. The stories of resistance, lynchings, survival, Jim Crow, destroyed Black towns, successes, and even our sacred grounds are once again at risk of being pushed aside for a more sanitized version of history. But as we spoke, something deeper surfaced.
Noelle Trent, CEO of the Museum of African American History in Boston and Nantucket, reminded us that we have been here before. Erasure is not new. Suppression is not new. The attempt to control the narrative is not new.
And yet, our stories are still here. We, the people, have always kept our history alive.
We kept it alive in our families, gathering around kitchen tables and at unmarked graves to celebrate, organize, grieve, and pray. We kept it alive in our churches, while demonstrating, registering to vote, and waiting for bail. We kept it alive in our newspapers, telling stories others would not print. We kept it alive in nkisis bundles hidden under floorboards, in our Bibles, and in our scrapbooks. We kept it alive by telling our stories in whispers, seeds, recipes, beads, and quilts, when beating drums, singing in fields, and dancing at night were too dangerous.
We carry all of that today. We remember.
As I listened to Byron Rushing recount the history of Black History Month, he shared that it was founded in 1926 by Dr. Carter G. Woodson. And he spoke of how the name evolved from “Negro History Week” to “Black History Month.” He was there, a living witness, a keeper of the flame.
In that moment, I realized something powerful: History is not abstract. It is not just dates in a textbook. It is people who were there. When Mr. Rushing spoke, he wasn’t just recounting an event; he was testifying. And I understood with clarity: no matter how fierce the winds of erasure may blow, someone will remember.
We are witnesses. We are the evidence that memory survives. As long as there are witnesses, history cannot be erased. It can be challenged. It can be distorted. But even that, someone will remember.
And that someone is us.