Lessons in Black History: An Open Letter | Guest Blog by CUSA Board Member Van Green
- 5 days ago
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The Association for the Study of African American Life and History (or ASALH, the founders of Black History Month), have announced their 2026 theme: “A Century of Black History Commemorations.” Noting Black luminaries including Dr. Carter Godwin Woodson, George Cleveland Hall, William B. Hartgrove, Jesse E. Moorland, Alexander L. Jackson, and James E. Stamps, ASLAH writes: “This year, when we are also commemorating the 250th anniversary of United States independence, it is important to tell not only an inclusive history, but an accurate one.” They continue:
We have never had more need to examine the role of Black History Month than we do when forces weary of democracy seek to use legislative means and book bans to excise Black history from America’s schools and public culture. Black history’s value is not its contribution to mainstream historical narratives, but its resonance in the lives of Black people. (Source: ASALH About the 2026 Black History Month)
Circles USA proudly joins ASALH’s celebration of Black history and culture in the US. We recognize that, due to centuries of systemic racial injustice, African Americans disproportionately experience debt; housing and food insecurity; and chronic, debilitating medical issues. Circles remains committed to centering the people and communities most impacted by poverty. To further that goal this February, several members of Circles USA leadership kindly shared their perspectives on Black economic advancement, the “American Dream,” and what Black history can teach us about building community to end poverty.
Written by Van Green
Circles USA Board Member
I could write this about a lot of people. I could write about Dr. King. Rosa Parks. Or even the names I learned every February. I could even write about athletes, artists, pastors, or politicians. But if I’m being honest, when I think of Black History, I think about my mother. When I think of impact, sure, there are so many names that I could focus on; but instead of focusing on a name that you may find in a textbook, today, I decide to think about my mother.
I grew up in a home as the youngest of four boys, raised in Alabama. Alabama, a place with a complicated history. A place where my heart will always belong. A place where the stories of injustice and resilience aren’t simply chapters in a textbook, but many memories carried by myself and others.
My mother is number eight of twelve children. She grew up with an innate sense of how and when to stand up for others, especially her younger siblings. If someone was mistreated at school, she spoke up. If something wasn’t fair, she challenged it. Not loudly. Not for attention. Just because it was right.
Long before I ever understood words like “equity,” “representation,” or “advocacy,” I saw them lived out in our home. She was ordained as a minister many years before I was. Not because she wanted a title, but because serving people is simply who she is. On top of that, she raised four boys. Now men. Alone. Which, if you ask me, might be the most courageous-yet-challenging calling of all.
When I look back, Black history in our home didn’t show up as speeches. It showed up as sacrifice. It looked like her driving me across town—sometimes across states—for basketball games, recitals, practices, and anything else I wanted to try. It looked like late nights and early mornings. It looked like bringing me to her workplace so I could understand the value of earning what you have.
She didn’t just tell me to dream. She made sure I had the chance to chase those dreams. Because of her, a kid from Alabama ended up at Columbia University. Because of her and my calling, I became ordained in ministry. Because of her, I now get to lead young men, coach, mentor, and help many toward their purpose. Because of her, I sit on a national board trying to help families break cycles of poverty. Because of her, I can be the father I am to my own sons. Every opportunity I’ve stepped into, in one way or another, has her fingerprints on it.
The older I get, the more I realize this: Black history isn’t only made by the famous. It is also made by so many others who may never get the recognition. By people whose names will never be printed in books. By the women who pack lunches, pray over their children, work double shifts, and still find the energy to encourage someone they just met at a nail salon. (Yes, that’s really her. She’ll turn a quick run to the store into a meaningful encounter with a stranger.) She is constantly teaching. Constantly loving. Constantly pouring into people. Not because anyone is watching. But because that’s simply who she is.
The older I get, the more I realize this: Black history isn’t only made by the famous. It is also made by so many others who may never get the recognition.
There’s a push in our country right now to shrink or sideline Black history. To treat it like an optional footnote instead of a foundational story. But you can’t erase something that lives in people. You can’t cancel lived experience. You can’t delete sacrifice. Black history isn’t a month. It’s the reason families like mine are still standing. It’s the same reason my sons will grow up knowing they come from a history rooted in strength.
For me, commemorating Black history isn’t about nostalgia. It’s about responsibility. It’s about remembering who carried you so you can carry someone else. It’s about honoring the everyday heroes who prepared us to not just survive, but to thrive. The ones who taught us dignity. Work ethic. Faith. Joy.
Even the small things like singing in the kitchen, dancing in the living room, sharing a love for popcorn, a love for movies, mixing food from three restaurants into one ridiculous family meal. Love lived out loud. That’s history too.
Today, I try to live the way she modeled. Leading men. Serving families. Showing up for my community. Helping create spaces where people feel seen and valued. Not chasing notoriety. Just trying to be faithful to what’s in front of me. If my mother taught me anything, it’s that you don’t have to be famous to change the world. You just have to show up. Consistently. Lovingly. Even when no one notices. Even when you are exhausted.
So maybe this year, when we talk about Black history and life commemorations, we widen the lens. Yes, honor the giants. But also honor your grandmother. Your coach. Your teacher. Your neighbor. Your single parent who never quit. The people who quietly built you. Tell their stories. Thank them. Carry their lessons forward.
To my mother, you may never be studied in a classroom, but you prepared a Black man to walk into any room with confidence and purpose. You taught me how to love people the way Christ loved. You taught me that strength and gentleness can live in the same heart. You are Black history. And now, as a father, I pray my sons look at me one day and say the same.
And to my community…be present with the people you love. Invest in someone younger. Encourage someone who feels unseen. Don’t wait for a stage. Don’t wait for recognition. Start today. Continue tomorrow. And the next day. Simply put, keep going. Because stories like hers, like yours, and like mine, are the ones that truly transform the world.
More from our Black History Month 2026 series:
Building Community to End Poverty for 25+ Years
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