On June 19, 1865, Maj. Gen. Gordon Granger read “General Order No. 3” to enslaved Black Americans in Galveston, Texas.

“The people of Texas are informed that, in accordance with a proclamation from the Executive of the United States, all slaves are free.”

Those words sparked jubilation and triggered “a moment of indescribable joy” from the group of more than 250,000 enslaved Black people whose lives would be forever changed as a result.

All slaves are free.

Although President Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation on January 1, 1863, it would take over two years for the news to reach the last bastions of the Confederacy like Texas. And despite the fact that Gen. Robert E. Lee, the commander of the Confederate army, surrendered 10 weeks earlier, there was a delay in relaying this life-altering message to the enslaved Black people of the Deep South.

June 19th, or Juneteenth as it is known today, is celebrated as the day news of emancipation finally reached the last group of the enslaved. And while it represents an exhilarating moment of abject joy and hope, it’s a simultaneous reminder of the incessant delay in this country’s duty to keep its promise to the very people who built it with their blood, sweat and tears. And while we celebrate the joy our ancestors must have felt when hearing those words, we must also ask ourselves just how long do Black Americans have to wait to truly be free in this country?

As we are poised to celebrate this holiday — that a number of brands such as Nike and Target, and multiple states like New York and Virginia have recently embraced — we ironically find ourselves at the precipice of a racial reckoning. Across the country — and around the world — many have demanded an end to the delay in bestowing equal rights and equal justice to Black people. And although we celebrate the day that commemorates Black liberation, we simultaneously continue to wait for it. America must cash the check she wrote long ago.

Juneteenth may mark the announcement of our emancipation, but we’re still waiting on the actualization of it. Even after the decree in 1865, many Black Americans were re-enslaved once Union troops returned to the North. Despite the passing of the 13th Amendment, slavery took on new forms like sharecropping or imprisonment. And centuries later, we’re still waiting for Black people to have the ability to go for a run, or sleep in their homes, or buy a bag of Skittles, or play with toy guns — or live, freely.

Black freedom in America has inextricably been tied to the perpetual request to wait. But this Juneteenth, we’ve made it clear that we’re not going to wait anymore. To truly be Black and free in this country, we must make it crystal clear that we’re no longer going to sit patiently and wait for a decree to be read — we’re going to write our own.

VICE Media Group is celebrating Juneteenth, the day all enslaved Black Americans were emancipated in the U.S., by highlighting stories important to the diaspora across VICE, i-D, Garage, and Refinery 29. Tune in to VICE TV for a full day of television honoring Black voices.

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Let’s cut to the chase. It’s been a tough few days…weeks…months. 

For many people, working in the midst of a global pandemic has been difficult. For those of us fortunate enough to continue doing our jobs safely at home, we’ve had to somehow make ourselves look presentable for nonstop digital meetings, and had to learn how to be productive as the lines between our personal and professional lives continue to blur. We’ve run out of shows to stream, Instagram lives to watch, things to bake. We’re confused and scared, and we don’t know when any of this will be over. 

But there’s a tale of two quarantines. Because while some Americans have been consumed by banana bread, others have had to navigate surviving a pandemic in a country they were never actually meant to live in. 

Over the last few months, Black people have not only watched their friends and family members die at higher rates from the coronavirus, they have also watched people who look like them be gunned down while going for a jog, been murdered in their homes, threatened while bird watching in Central Park, and mercilessly choked on camera. 

And every day, we have woken up and answered the emails and gotten on the Zoom calls. We’ve showed up with a smile, and put the pain and fear behind us. We’ve swallowed the rage while responding to our bosses, and offered the assistance and worked twice as hard for half as much — because that’s all we know how to do. 

But here’s a newsflash for all the white people unaware of this fact: your Black colleagues may seem okay right now, but chances are they’re not.

The likelihood that your Black colleague lost a family member to COVID-19 is painfully high. The chances that your Black colleague was triggered by the viral video of Amy Cooper because a white woman used her race and privilege and weaponized it against him is incredibly likely. The possibility that your Black colleague is afraid to go for a run, or terrified when her husband leaves the house, or just simply enraged by the incessant lies this country keeps telling us about equal liberties is so high you’ll need a ladder to get it down. 

And yet, she’s responded to your passive aggressive email, and he’s smiled through your condescending questioning. Or even just found the strength to peel themselves out of bed and simply show up. Every day, Black people take the personal trauma we all know to be true and tuck it away to protect white people who are ignorant to the fact that it’s nearly impossible to keep going when your grandma won’t survive coronavirus because she has serious pre-existing conditions. We watch white women feign terror on the phone with authorities that will arrive at the scene and kill the Black man she called the cops on. It’s even harder when you watch those cops kill that Black man on video, and sometimes the killers aren’t even cops. 

But we show up for work anyway. And we contain our rage, tears, fear and sadness. We write to each other in group chats. We send each other articles that articulate our feelings. We post and repost and retweet on social media. But we don’t take our pain to work. 

So while you navigate this pandemic which has ravaged our way of life — and prematurely taken the lives of so many no matter what race — acknowledge that burden is falling on your Black colleagues disproportionately. And know that they’ll never show it. They’ve learned to navigate their worlds too well for that. And although we were told the degrees and the jobs and the accomplishments would somehow protect us from being treated like second-class citizens; although we were made to believe that working hard and contributing to society would mean society would treat us like human beings, we’ve learned the painful truth — that’s a lie. 

On behalf of your Black colleagues: we’re not okay. And you shouldn’t be either. 

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There’s something about a good Black love movie that gets me every time: the delight of being catapulted into a world of people you can relate to; the emotional rollercoaster ride of watching two people fall for each other and overcome the obstacles that come with choosing one another. The excitement of seeing the couple succeed against all odds.

The Black love movies I grew up with knew what they were doing. The women were bad and the men were fine. The story lines were spicy, and the tea was piping hot. But for so long, so many Black love stories were bogged down by baggage or emotional turmoil. There were no stories where a Black woman didn’t need to emotionally sustain her partner, or ride an emotional rollercoaster before ultimately living happily ever after. We didn’t have a lot of films about two Black people who just met and decided they want to love each other. As new stories of Black love emerge, we’re seeing more representation of Black couples from cisgender to same sex, to non-binary. And films like The Photograph, the highly-anticipated Valentine’s Day movie starring Issa Rae and LaKeith Stanfield, are proving that audiences don’t need the drama to be invested in an onscreen love. But it triggers an exploration of the blueprint set by some of the iconic Black love movies that paved the way.

From Love Jones, to Love and Basketball to The Best Man — these stories filled our eyes with tears and our hearts with nostalgia. But did we grow up watching problematic story lines and rooting for relationships we wouldn’t advise ourselves or our friends get into today? As I get older, I find myself taking a hard look at our favorite Black film couples and asking the question: are they actually #relationshipgoals?

Before the congregation comes for me (which I know it will), let me be quite clear: not only do I love these movies — they’ve shaped a large part of my world view.  Because of Love & Basketball, I wanted to lose my virginity the way Monica Wright did — with Maxwell’s “This Woman’s Work” softly playing in the background. Because of The Best Man, my husband and I walked out of the church to a string quartet version of Stevie Wonder’s “As” after saying “I do,” and we did the electric slide to Cameo’s “Candy” at the reception. And I’m still waiting for a man to tell me he’s the blues in my left thigh trying to become the funk in my right because of Love Jones. These movies shaped my view of what Black love looked like — and that might be the problem. 

Let’s highlight one of my favorites: Love & Basketball. The film follows the love story of childhood friends and next door neighbors Monica Wright and Quincy McCall — played by Sanaa Lathan and Omar Epps — whose shared love for basketball ultimately brings them together. We watch as the two grow from a childhood crush on each other, to a high school romance (I still see the compilation of McCall killing it on the court in my head any time I hear Kool Moe Dee’s “I go to work”). They eventually attend USC together where they confront the challenges of McCall’s rising fame as a star athlete following in his former NBA-pro father’s footsteps, while Wright struggles to prove she’s got what it takes on the women’s basketball team. Quincy tells Monica she doesn’t need to worry about succeeding on the court because she’ll be famous for being “Quincy McCall’s wife.” Watching it now makes me cringe. But even if I can get past that misogynistic comment, it all goes downhill for me soon after. 

Quincy is dealt an incredibly emotional blow when he learns his father, who has set a strong example for him not only as a basketball player but as a man, cheated on his mother. The news comes just as Monica, who has been fighting her own battle to be taken seriously on the basketball team, makes the starting lineup. Although Wright offers her boyfriend support, McCall is too self-absorbed to balance his girlfriend’s athletic aspirations with his own crumbling world. He gets upset when she suggests going back to one of their dorm rooms so she doesn’t miss curfew and can suit up for tomorrow’s game. The next day, rather than celebrating Monica’s big win, he gets drunk at a party and flirts with another girl  — who he ultimately ends up taking on a date to Burger King right in front of Monica’s face.

McCall is a college freshman at this point in the story, so of course I don’t expect him to conduct himself like a grown man. But his actions sent a troubling message to me at a young age: that as a heterosexual Black woman, I shouldn’t expect my partner to support my ambitions with as much vigor as I supported his, and that his needs would always trump my own. 

The movie continues, and the pair break up. Quincy goes pro, against his father’s suggestion (we’re led to believe he leaves his ex behind at USC). Monica pursues her professional dream of being a basketball star overseas, albeit personally unfulfilled because of the void Quincy left in her heart years ago. When she returns to the states to find an injured — and engaged — NBA pro in McCall, she decides to lay it all on the line and play him for his heart.

That scene of Wright and McCall on the basketball court late at night with that damn Me’shell Ndegeocello song playing in the background gets me every time. The words “you made a fool of me” hanging in the balance as Quincy repeatedly scores and ultimately wins. I want to scream and shake Monica. I want to tell her Quincy owes her an apology, not the other way around. And yet, I continue to root for them. I still cry every time McCall says “double or nothing.” 

The movie ends with a shot at a WNBA game, viewers see Quincy McCall with a baby girl in his lap cheering on his wife Monica Wright-McCall. The tables have turned, and it is in fact he who is famous for being her husband. 

I often ask myself what I would say if Monica Wright was my friend and she called me for advice. I’d tell her to run. I’d tell her McCall was toxic and selfish. Ironically enough, I spent years trying to make my own toxic relationships work. When I first started dating my now husband, I recall being extremely uncomfortable with the lack of issues or problems for me to fix. Today I wonder how much of that was influenced by the films that shaped my idea of what romantic relationships looked like.

My other favorites don’t offer much in the department of redemption. In The Best Man, Taye Diggs’ character Harper Lee struggles to commit to his girlfriend Robin (also played by Lathan). He only proposes (at his best friend’s wedding!) after nearly cheating on her with his college sweetheart Jordan Armstrong (played by Nia Long) the night before. Oh yeah, and his best friend Lance Sullivan (portrayed by the eternally handsome Morris Chestnut), just found out that Lee slept with his now wife years ago in college. And don’t get me started on Sullivan’s cheating ass. Despite all of this, you’ll always find me across from the television cheering them all on and musing at how beautiful it all is. I still love seeing Harper hold Robin’s shoes as everyone does the electric slide at the end of the film.

Brown Sugar, Love Jones, you name it. My childhood was full of Black love stories that included tumultuous and often troubling storylines. But we all still love those couples today. We dress up as them for Halloween. We watch them over and over again on girls nights.

And although we know they’re not perfect characters: 

the most trash black love story was 'love & basketball' his trash ass didn't even deserve her in the end he was dogging her for years

— MZ INCHES (@REDSEASHAWTY) December 11, 2016

We still uphold many of the men as our ideal partner:

I need me a man like Lance Sullivan off The Best Man Holiday 😩😍🤤🙌🏼

— ✨Chasity Shaqueetta✨ (@Chassyy_Mae14) June 14, 2017

I was pleasantly surprised to see that with her film The Photograph, director Stella Meghie veers away from the traditional tumult that so often exists in Black rom coms. It was refreshing to see a couple whose challenges have nothing to do with infidelity or dishonesty, and it was a delight to see vulnerability put on display by both the male and female characters. 

During an interview on Ira Madison III’s podcast Keep It, Stanfield admitted that was part of what drew him to the film.

“That’s one of the reasons I wanted to do The Photograph, is because I wanted to just see normal love,” he said. “Like normal love between Black people that isn’t influenced necessarily by all the tropes that we’re used to seeing in these love stories. I’m bored of watching the same thing, bored of seeing the same thing. I just want us to first be able to be human, and then we can be seen as everything else.” 

In the film, Stanfield’s character Michael Block is regularly called out by his big brother (portrayed by the hilarious Lil Rel Howery) who himself offers an example as a husband and father of two young girls. The scenes between the two are heartwarming displays of candor that we rarely get to see between Black men on the big screen. Rather than looking off into the distance in silence when Stanfield’s character says something questionable  (y’all know the exact look I’m talking about), Howery calls him out in a loving way. 

What if Quincy McCall, Lance Sullivan and Harper Lee had friends that called them out? What if we got to see them be vulnerable with their partners rather than come to accept the reinforcement of damaging Black, male stereotypes that made them hide their emotions or express their sadness through anger and resentment? Of course, these are all just movies and not real life. But pop culture has power, and I can’t help but wonder if a small shift in the storylines would change how we see Black love today.

There will always be a special place in my heart for all of these movies. Each of the characters feel like family to me. But I’m realizing more and more every day that rather than holding their stories up on a pedestal as the prototype of Black love, I should continue to hold a special place in my heart for them as representations of all the different ways Black love can look: perfectly imperfect, at times problematic — but always very Black. 

The words “Black History Month” often evoke stories of luminaries like Rosa Parks and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. While their legacies will always be crucial to the culture, this year, we’re going beyond. Roots is R29Unbothered’s Black History Month series that delves into the tangled history of Black identity, beauty and contributions to the culture. Follow along as we shine light on Black history and Black present throughout February and beyond — because Black history is made every day.

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