A Letter to Black America
To my beautiful people, my Black family in America,
We’ve been told a story—a singular, incomplete story—about who we are, where we come from, and what we can be. For generations, this narrative has come from outside our communities, shaping not only how we see ourselves but how we see each other. But I’m writing to remind us: our true stories, our legacy, are so much more than what’s been handed to us through textbooks, mainstream media, or history tainted by bias. Our story lives in the voices of our elders, in the quiet moments around family tables, in heirlooms, recipes, and practices that have passed through our hands, undocumented but deeply rooted.
This is a love letter. A reminder. An invitation to question, to reflect, and to reclaim.
They tell us we are just 13% of the population—a small number, a minority. But you and I both know that we are more. We are connected to a history that stretches far beyond the borders of the United States, one that links us to the Caribbean, Central and South America, Africa, and beyond. The narratives that have been passed down to us—through skewed history and diluted teachings—are only fragments of who we truly are. The story we’ve been fed, the one that confines us to being descendants of slaves, is incomplete. It’s time to question those narratives and challenge the idea that we are merely a minority—because globally, we are not. We are vast. We are connected.
I know, sometimes we find ourselves sitting with elders, hoping to uncover the truths about our origins. But here’s the thing—we need to recognize that even our elders have been shaped by the same indoctrination. They carry wisdom, yes, but they also carry the weight of a system that’s long tried to suppress our true identities. They marched for rights, for recognition, for inclusion. But did we ever truly receive first-class citizenship? Did we ever learn our true nationality? We have to ask ourselves these uncomfortable questions.
What we’ve been handed is a label—Black—a color, not a nationality. And as long as we are "Black" in the eyes of the system, we are denied the promises owed to a people with recognized nationhood. If “Black” as a nationality doesn’t exist, then what due process, what rights, can we truly claim?
I want you to cherish the stories shared by our elders, but I also want us to go further, to seek what’s been hidden. Research your roots. Trace your family tree. Find those forgotten connections—whether they lead you to Africa, the Caribbean, or somewhere you never expected. Our history has been fragmented by design, but with every piece we reclaim, we become more whole.
There is so much power in capturing our stories and preserving them for the generations to come. Whether it’s through a family recipe book, an oral history, or simply safeguarding old photographs, we hold the tools to ensure our legacy continues. These small, everyday acts of preservation—braiding hair, gathering around the dinner table, sharing stories—are acts of rebellion in a world that has tried to erase us. These rituals, these heirlooms, remind us that we have always been here. We have always mattered.
I still remember the day I found my grandmother’s handwritten recipes, tucked away in an old old breadbox from the 1950s. Holding those fragile papers connected me to the women who came before me, to the legacy of care and nourishment they passed down. That’s the power of documenting our stories. When we preserve these moments—whether in photos, journals, or stories passed down orally—we are not just holding onto memories. We are safeguarding our place in history.
So, my people, I ask you: question everything. Talk to your elders, but don’t be afraid to dig deeper. There are truths waiting to be uncovered, waiting to be reclaimed. Our history hasn’t been lost—it’s waiting for us to find it. It’s in the land, in our traditions, in the practices we’ve always kept close, even when the world tried to strip them from us.
We are at a critical moment. So much of our culture is at risk of being forgotten, overwritten, or dismissed. But we have the power to change that. By preserving our family stories, by documenting our practices, by holding on to our heirlooms and recipes, we are ensuring that the world remembers us as we truly are—not as we’ve been portrayed. This is a moment to ask ourselves if our history is truly hidden or if it has always been in plain sight, waiting for us to dig deeper and reclaim it.
With every story we tell, every artifact we pass down, we are building a bridge between generations—a bridge that defies the labels imposed on us and connects us to the fullness of our history. We don’t have to accept the labels that others have given us. We have the power to define ourselves, on our own terms.
So let’s do just that. Let’s reclaim our narrative, dig deeper, and ensure that our legacy lives on, stronger than ever.
With love and urgency,
Jasmine Ballard
