Russ Wigginton: Studying Black history may feel uncomfortable. It should be

One hundred years ago, Black History Month began as an act of correction.

Historian Carter G. Woodson established Negro History Week to preserve Black contributions from being erased from American memory. He chose February to honor Frederick Douglass and Abraham Lincoln, two figures tied to freedom and emancipation.

What began as a week of recognition grew into a national observance in 1976, when President Gerald Ford formally recognized Black History Month.

Its purpose was never symbolic. It was corrective. It was educational. It was necessary.

Today, Black History Month is more than a cultural moment on the calendar. It is more than a burst of social media posts, corporate campaigns or temporary statements of solidarity.

It must also be more than a short season of heightened visibility for the Black community and other marginalized communities navigating one of the most challenging periods in our nation’s history.

Black history is American history. When we sanitize or erase it, we damage the whole.

The debates we see today around critical race theory, diversity and inclusion efforts, and the teaching of race in schools are not new. They are part of a long struggle over who gets to define the American story.

But what is at stake now is deeper than curriculum. It is moral clarity.

The good book reminds us: “Whatsoever you do to the least of these, you do unto me.” That principle extends beyond theology. It is a civic truth.

What is done to the least protected, the least resourced, the least heard among us will reverberate across the entire society. Suppress their stories, and you weaken democratic discourse. Diminish their rights, and you erode equal protection. Silence their voices, and you steal something essential from democracy itself.

The harm does not stay contained.

When Black history is treated as optional, controversial or divisive, we signal that truth is negotiable. When institutions retreat from equity out of fear or political pressure, we normalize exclusion.

When we reduce Black History Month to performance rather than policy, celebration rather than commitment, we miss its core purpose.

Black History Month was never meant to be comfortable. It was meant to be clarifying.

At the National Civil Rights Museum, we see every day how history shapes conscience. Visitors do not leave unchanged after confronting the truth about slavery, Reconstruction, Jim Crow, mass incarceration or the unfinished work of voting rights. They leave understanding that democracy is fragile and participatory.

So, what does honoring Black History Month look like now?

It requires moving beyond gestures toward an “all boats rise” approach to building what the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. called the “Beloved Community.” That vision was not abstract. It was practical. It called for economic justice, equal access to education, environmental fairness and political engagement rooted in dignity.

A true all-boats-rise approach means the following:

• Supporting inclusive economic practices that create pathways to wealth and stability in historically excluded communities.
• Fostering honest dialogue across differences not to win arguments, but to build understanding.
• Mentoring the next generation so that opportunity is not determined by ZIP code.
• Advocating for policies that protect vulnerable communities from environmental and economic harm.
• Engaging politically with conviction and respect to ensure that democratic systems serve all people, not just the powerful.

This is not about special treatment. It is about shared destiny.

Black History Month endures because inequality endures. Its power lies in its invitation to remember, reckon and rebuild.

If we truly believe that we are bound together in what Dr. King called the “World House,” then the work of justice cannot be seasonal. It must be sustained. It must be collective. And it must be courageous.

Black History Month is not a sidebar to the American story. It is a mirror. It shows us who we have been, who we are and who we still have the capacity to become.

The question is not whether this history matters.

The question is whether we are willing to live up to it.

Russ Wigginton is the president of the National Civil Rights Museum.