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Just One (White) Voice: Elevating Black History Month, 2025 and Always

Writer's picture: Dr. Patty GentlyDr. Patty Gently

By Dr. Patty Gently on February 4, 2025

Bright Insight Support Network founder and president Dr. Patricia Gently is a trauma therapist and coach who specializes in EMDR and works with gifted neurodivergent and other marginalized populations. She is an experienced author, educator, and presenter who promotes integrated inclusivity, a holistic understanding of neurodiversity, and information integrity.



Just One (White) Voice: Elevating Black History Month, 2025 and Always

 

My mother's mother was a preteen and then a teenager in Depression-era Kentucky, in a town divided by railroad tracks. The north side was home to White families, including my grandmother’s, while the south side was where Black families lived. She was warned never to cross the tracks, with fear-filled stories meant to keep her away. Yet, her strong will and curiosity drove her to challenge those warnings. She crossed the tracks and befriended Henry, a brilliant Black youngster a little older than her. In their decades-long friendship, she saw how fear and stereotypes upheld division. This defiance of prejudice became a cornerstone of our family’s values.


Grandma carried this into adulthood, becoming a nurse and working with the Pueblos near Taos, New Mexico, before moving to Alaska, where she met my grandfather. Though their marriage ended, her influence remained foundational to my mother and aunts. She taught them to question norms that perpetuate inequality, even in the language they used. For example, my mother told me how she rejected words like “sir" and “ma’am" due to their historical role in reinforcing hierarchies, particularly in racial contexts. My mother carried this forward, encouraging thoughtful, intentional language. Today, I use these terms sparingly, an echo of those lessons.


By five, I had firmly internalized my grandmother’s sense of justice, though in the way a child does—idealistic and incomplete. I idolized Rosa Rarks and Harriet Tubman, imagining myself giving up seats on busses and working on the Underground Railroad. I took it all literally, picturing secret tunnels and trains transporting people to freedom. When I finally understood the reality, my admiration for such heros deepened. They became benchmarks for courage and justice.


By second grade, my idealism was running headfirst into systemic injustice. Martin Luther King Jr. Day made sense to me. Black History Month felt inadequate. Why only one month out of twelve? Why weren’t Black achievements seamlessly integrated into history lessons year-round? Even then, I sensed that real equity meant consistent acknowledgment, not a designated window of recognition. I believed it was the job of educational leaders to purposefully elevate the voices that had been previously stifled. I did not understand the extent of the inequity.


Growing up in Alaska, I was somewhat shielded from the racial tensions seen elsewhere, but racism still existed—sometimes in jokes, sometimes in silence. By fifth grade, I confronted it directly. A popular neighborhood kid and his out-of-town friend made racist jokes in my yard. I warned them to stop. When they didn’t, I kicked them out.


“I don’t know if racism is okay where you come from," I told them, “but it’s not okay here." 


I pointed to the gate and exit from my yard. They left, and though my brother was embarrassed, they all got over it. That moment solidified something in me—the realization that speaking out, even when uncomfortable, was necessary. Silence allows injustice to persist. Not in my yard, though.


This awareness stayed with me. In junior high and high school, I organized (and was sent to detention for) peaceful protests, unwilling to stay quiet when I saw wrongdoing. College gave me the language to articulate what I had always sensed—privilege, systemic inequities, and microaggressions. Later, as a therapist, I developed an empirically supported curriculum addressing domestic violence in LGBTQ+ communities, reinforcing the lessons my grandmother taught: never stop questioning, never stop learning, and never stop listening.


That is why, even as efforts are made to erase diversity, equity, and inclusion—whether through Trump canceling DEI programs or the Defense Department declaring 'identity months' dead—I will celebrate Black History Month this month and always. Representation matters. It mattered when my grandmother crossed the tracks to find her own truth, it mattered when I questioned why Black contributions were an afterthought, and it matters now when institutions attempt to silence those who have fought hardest to be heard. The work is not finished. Black history is American history. Black history is world history. This is not American or World History Month though, because there are still those out there trying to silence Black voices. Not me. Not here. I will continue to honor and elevate them.



**We are looking, always, for BIPOC voices to contribute to our blog! If you are interested, please email me at brightinsightadvocate@gmail.com!**


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