Aliyah Pitt, Contributing Writer
Growing up in Maryland, Black history wasn’t something confined to one month out of the year. It was woven into my everyday life — from the names of buildings to the murals painted across brick walls.
Living just outside of Washington D.C., I was surrounded by reminders of progress — reminders that people who looked like me had shaped this country in undeniable ways.
Every February, the spotlight returns to the same kind of story: “the first to do this, the first to become that, the first to break through a space that had long been closed off.” Each story shares a consistent message: “look how far we’ve come and look at what’s possible.”
Black excellence is real and deserves recognition. The milestones we highlight each year reflect resilience and determination in the face of adversity. However, I began to recognize a pattern in how those stories were told. Recognition only seemed to follow record-breaking moments. Visibility was really only followed by history-making achievements.
Slowly, the lessons became less and less about pride and more about expectation.
The stories we celebrate shape how we see ourselves. When Black history is framed mostly around extraordinary achievement, it quietly teaches that visibility is earned through struggle — that to be seen, you must outperform. In order to belong, you must exceed the standard rather than simply meeting it.
I was told once that I would have to work twice as hard for half as much. That message does not exist without context — it echoes the same expectation for how people define excellence.
The “firsts” did not emerge suddenly. They came after centuries of legalized exclusion — from slavery to Jim Crow laws. These systems shaped opportunity for generations. When someone finally broke through, it was powerful.
Now, after living and studying in Virginia, I see what resistance looks like in real time. Leaders such as L. Louise Lucas — the first Black woman to serve as president pro tempore of the Virginia Senate — did not simply walk into leadership. She fought for it. She obtained one of the highest-ranking leadership positions in the state Senate, becoming not only the longest-serving woman, but the highest-ranking Black lawmaker in Virginia’s history.
When we celebrate the first Black CEO, senator or judge without fully examining why it took so long, we risk framing inequality as an individual obstacle rather than a structural one. The narrative becomes about personal grit instead of institutional barriers. It becomes about how remarkable one person is rather than how entrenched the system is.
Empowerment isn’t just about honoring breakthroughs. It’s also about questioning why those breakthroughs were necessary in the first place. Being “the first” is powerful because someone was denied that title before. If we don’t talk about denial — if we only focus on victory — we risk turning injustice into an inspiring backdrop instead of calling it what it was.
There’s nothing wrong with celebrating milestones — they matter. They represent resilience and persistence. But when those are the only stories amplified, they can unintentionally create pressure. Pressure to be exceptional. Pressure to be extraordinary. Pressure to carry more than your own ambition.
True progress would mean walking into a space without counting. It would mean not wondering if you’re the only one. It would mean not feeling like your performance determines whether others like you will be welcomed the next time.