Reliving the Past, Black and Present

Some days it feels as though I’m standing in two centuries at once—one foot in the 21st century, with smartphones, AI, and promises of progress, and the other stuck in the shadows of the 19th century, weighed down by Jim Crow’s lingering chains. Hatred and racism are not relics of history; they are headlines, daily encounters, and whispers in spaces where silence feels louder than words. For Black people and people of colour, the past has never fully passed. We are constantly reminded that the fight for dignity and equality is ongoing, relentless, and deeply personal. I can still hear my mother saying, "The more things change, the more they remain the same or become worse." Once again, she was right.

History books often frame slavery, segregation, discrimination, and colonialism as chapters long closed, but anyone with Black or Brown skin knows the story is far from over. Racism doesn’t just live in dusty archives or museums; it breathes in institutions, laws, and social systems. It shows up in the way opportunity is unevenly distributed, how justice is unequally served, and how stereotypes persist like stubborn stains. The legacies of oppression shape our reality every single day, forcing us to relive battles our ancestors already fought. Whenever I listen to the racist leadership in America today and watch the actions being taken to erase our history so that racists can believe they are superior to any person of colour, it makes me feel sad and angry. Deep down inside, they know it's not true but continue to teach the lies and fiction to their children and grandchildren, teaching them to hate. There is a movement to terminate all funding to educational systems and museums that take pride in showing the truth about our history. There are even Black 'fake' celebrities like Kanye West, that have the audacity to say that slavery was a choice. Just a reminder, he has always supported donOLD Trump.

Racism isn’t always a burning cross or a shouted slur. Sometimes it’s the “Where are you really from?” question that insists you don’t belong. Other times it’s being followed in a store, overlooked for a job, stopped by local police because you may have stolen your car, you look like the person that robbed a 7-11 store in another town, or sitting in a meeting where your voice is ignored until someone else repeats your idea. These microaggressions may seem small to others, but together they echo the larger patterns of exclusion and discrimination. They drag the past into the present, reminding us that no matter how much progress we’ve made, the ground is still uneven.

Reliving the past is exhausting. It feels like carrying a backpack filled with other people’s fears, biases, and hatred, one that never comes off, even when you’re smiling, working, or raising your children. The weight seeps into mental health, creating cycles of anger, anxiety, stress, and sometimes numbness. It impacts relationships, trust, and even the way we move through the world. This constant reliving is not just about memory; it’s about survival in a world that still sees our skin before it sees our humanity.

And yet, within this struggle lives resilience. Black people and people of colour have always found ways to heal, resist, and reclaim identity. We find power in storytelling, speaking truths that history tried to bury. We lean on community, faith, art, and activism, using them as tools to mend wounds and resist invisibility. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting; it means refusing to let racial trauma be the only story. It’s about rewriting the narrative so that the future is shaped not only by what was taken, but by what we continue to create.

For those who do not carry this history in their bodies, know this: racism and hatred are not “Black problems” or “immigrant problems.” They are human problems that diminish us all. Reliving the past is not a choice for people of colour, it is a condition imposed by systems and behaviours that refuse to change. But there is choice in listening, in learning, and in creating spaces where healing is possible. The past cannot be erased, but it can be acknowledged, honoured, and transformed into fuel for justice.

As a Black man, I cannot bury the past; it walks with me into boardrooms, classrooms, restaurants, department stores, airports, and neighbourhoods. I am proud to say that I also carry my ancestors’ resilience, their strength, and their hope for something better. We move forward not by pretending history is over, but by remembering it with open eyes and refusing to repeat it. Progress is possible, but only if we face the truth that racism is not behind us, it is beside us. To relive the past is painful, but it's also a cause for us to rise, to fight, and to build a future where no one must carry this burden again. For Black people, history isn’t behind us, it walks beside us every single day.

The Jim Crow era may have ended legally decades ago, but its legacy is alive in the systems and attitudes that continue to marginalize Black people and other communities of colour. Then, racism was codified in law, separate schools, voting restrictions, and public segregation designed to enforce inequality. Today, the oppression is often elusive, but no less damaging: redlining shapes neighbourhoods, disparities in education and healthcare persist, and mass incarceration disproportionately targets Black men. On the streets and online, the echoes of Jim Crow manifest in microaggressions, racial profiling, and the constant need to navigate spaces where bias is assumed, not questioned. Where once the threat was overt, now it is structural, institutional, and cultural, but the impact is the same, the past refuses to stay behind us. Racism, though transformed in form, continues to demand vigilance, resilience, and the courage to fight for equity and justice.

Reliving the past as a Black man isn’t about being stuck in history, it’s about acknowledging that history lives within us, shaping how we are seen and how we must navigate the world. The echoes of Jim Crow and the 19th century may still surround us, but so does the strength of our ancestors who endured the unfairness so we could stand here today. We carry their resilience as much as we carry the weight of their struggles. Moving forward means refusing to let racism define us while insisting that society confront its truths. But with courage, honesty, and hope, we can make sure it doesn’t control the path ahead. To be Black is to live in two timelines at once: the promise of progress and the memory of pain.

The past lingers like a shadow, following me wherever I go. It whispers through every injustice, every look, every reminder that the world still measures me by my skin before it knows my name. Yet within that shadow burns a light, the strength of generations who refused to be erased. Their courage is my inheritance, their resilience my reminder that even when yesterday insists on reliving itself, tomorrow is still ours to shape.