Let’s retrace our steps to 2020, or 2021 if you were lucky. In those months following George Floyd’s murder, the world seemed to crack open. His death didn’t just spark protests; it ignited a global reckoning, with millions pouring into the streets to demand justice and an end to the systemic racism that has plagued Black lives for generations. Black Lives Matter became more than a movement; it became a rallying cry echoing across cities, continents, and screens. And amid this global unrest, something changed about Black History Month, too. For a brief moment, it felt like brands were genuinely committed to amplifying Black voices—our voices, stories, and experiences. Opportunities that once felt distant or impossible came pouring in. I was invited to speak on panels, create content, and write for major publications, all without the usual struggle of pitching or begging for a chance. But as the months, and years slipped by, that spark of interest began to fade, leaving me wondering if Black History Month was just another trend that had already lost its shine.
I’m a freelance journalist, digital strategist, and content creator—your typical millennial multi-hyphenate. In 2020 and 2021, I was still relatively new to freelancing, so the flood of high-profile gigs felt almost surreal. I was thrilled, yes, but I also knew I was being approached for all the wrong reasons: diversity quotas, white guilt, and because ignoring Black voices had suddenly become damn near impossible. Brands needed us to check a box, to show the world they were “doing the work,” even if only on the surface. Now, in 2024, I’m more established in my career and no longer reliant on the opportunities that came with Black History Month. Regardless, things have changed. Each October feels quieter than the last, and many of my peers are experiencing the same. Since around 2022, it’s like the collective excitement over BHM has faded, and brands have returned to business as usual. At this point, I’ve come to expect it. I’m no longer shocked; instead, I’m resigned to this new normal where Black voices are amplified only when convenient.
When I was little, Black History Month seemed important. I was too young to grasp the weight of it fully, but I remember celebrating, learning, and participating in activities that made me feel a part of something bigger. In 2020 and 2021, those same feelings of significance and excitement came rushing back. It felt like the world was on the cusp of something meaningful, a shift toward genuine reflection and action. But now, I can’t help but wonder if we’re quietly reverting and if that moment of urgency was simply reactionary.
Black History Month should be a time of celebration, empowerment, and education, but too often, it feels like an obligation, a box to check for diversity and inclusion.
This past summer of 2024, race riots erupted once more, with Black communities again the target of violence. In the UK, hostile environment policies fuelled blatant xenophobia and hostility toward non-white people, making it feel like history was repeating itself. Foolishly, I thought these renewed tensions would spark a resurgence in interest in Black History Month, but instead, I was met with the usual excuses from brands: budget cuts. While I am working on a few projects throughout October, aside from this article, none are Black History Month initiatives. The subtle message is painfully clear: our stories are only worth amplifying when they serve a brand’s image or align with the broader outrage of the moment.
This brings me to a fundamental question: Who is Black History Month really for? In my mind, this month should encompass a celebration of both our past and our present. For educational purposes, we must reflect on the tragedies that shaped our history, the events and sacrifices that too often go overlooked. But for celebratory reasons, it’s just as vital that we recognise the history being made by Black people today. The art, the achievements and the contributions happening in real-time. So where has the interest gone? And although it feels terrible to say, why does it no longer surface, even when Black communities face ongoing crises? Have we entered a period of complete disregard? Should we be worried about what this represents?
Unfortunately, I don’t have the answers to the questions that I and so many others are asking. Back in 2020, Black History Month felt different. It was raw, intense, and maybe a little performative, but it also felt meaningful. Brands seemed eager to show their support in highly visible ways such as The Royal Mail painting postboxes black to “honour Black Britons”. They needed Black voices and faces to signal their commitment to the cause. While we recognised the transactional nature of this sudden attention, we also understood that it provided a rare opportunity. In that moment, I (personally) seized the chance to share my experiences, educate others, and try to create a ripple of change.
Today, it’s essential to acknowledge those who are continuing this work without corporate backing. Figures like Labour MP Dawn Butler, who recently raised the importance of Black History Month in Parliament, highlighted this year’s theme, ‘Reclaiming the Narrative,’ and called for a debate on the topic, are championing these efforts. Lavinya Stennett, whose organisation, The Black Curriculum, is making a crucial impact, is another leader in this space. Furthermore, local authorities and grassroots organisations across the UK are organising community-focused, not-for-profit events, emphasising the importance of celebrating Black history on a regional level and reminding us that true support for Black History Month must extend beyond brand-led initiatives. They are helping to ensure that Black History Month remains a time of reflection, education, and empowerment and not just another way to profit off Black trauma.
However, this shift in interest speaks to a troubling pattern: Black pain is newsworthy, marketable even. There’s a disturbing trend of brands and institutions caring about Black voices only when there’s a fresh tragedy to respond to, and even then, the tragedy must be heinous, unavoidable, something that can’t easily be brushed under the rug or forgotten. This transactional relationship, in which Black experiences are only amplified when there’s something to mourn or protest, is deeply problematic. It suggests that our stories aren’t inherently valuable, and they’re only deemed valuable when paired with pain.
The cyclical pattern of interest and disinterest has profoundly shaped how I approach Black History Month. While I continue to hope for genuine support, I’ve become more cautious and more sceptical. Black History Month should be a time of celebration, empowerment, and education, but too often, it feels like an obligation, a box to check for diversity and inclusion. The lack of sincerity is hard to ignore, leaving the month with an emptiness that’s palpable.
This sentiment resonates across industries. One report highlights that brands have come to rely on performative gestures, paying lip service to diversity without demonstrating long-term commitment. This is particularly evident as more consumers become savvy about the difference between substantive engagement and superficial gestures. For Black people, the emotional toll of this cycle is palpable seeing the moment that should be ours reduced to a fleeting marketing tool is both exhausting and disheartening.
So here we are in 2024, asking the same questions and grappling with the same frustrations. When brands tell me they don’t have the budget for Black History Month, I can’t help but wonder what they truly value. Is this month about educating and empowering, or is it just another PR opportunity? Is it about fostering meaningful conversations, or is it about appearing socially conscious without doing the hard work of supporting Black communities year-round?
As I reflect on this quiet October, I’m reminded that our stories are worthy of celebration, not because of what we’ve endured, but because of who we are. Black History Month shouldn’t hinge on tragedy; it should thrive on the joy, strength, and brilliance of Black communities. But as long as brands continue to pick and choose when to care, we will remain in a cycle of fleeting interest, followed by a return to invisibility.
In the end, perhaps it’s up to us, the Black creators, the storytellers, and the change-makers, to reclaim BHM. To make it our own, to celebrate ourselves whether brands pay attention or not. Because, ultimately, Black history isn’t just a commodity; it’s a legacy and one that deserves to be honoured every day of the year, by us, and by everyone who claims to support us.
Like what you see? How about some more R29 goodness, right here?