Years ago I voiced an audiobook that, among other things, contained speeches of early Black American leaders.

The ones who were speaking up long before the nation was catching up.
The shoulders on which the civil rights of many rest.
And I remember moments. Pressing pause. Not to correct a mispronunciation (though normal), and not to research a hard-to-pronounce name or word (also normal). But because I was emotionally gripped. And affected. And momentarily unable to keep going.
Their memorialized passion, proclaimed amidst the darkness of bigotry and hate, got too much. A white man’s vocal attempt at representing a black man’s lived burden nailed me. And so at least for a few minutes, I had to stop.
But they didn’t.
Booker and Jo Ann and Dorothy and Martin and John. And so many.
Thank God they didn’t.
This month when we hear Black History mentioned, let’s pay attention. If some of us feel we can’t relate, let me say it as gently and candidly as I can, we’re wrong.
It’s our history.
All of us.
Because how we treat and value and dignify one another speaks to who we are.
All of us.
Words spoken long ago echo. May we listen. And be challenged and changed.
And work to make the dreams that birthed them more fully realized.