Black Does Crack

Ah yes, Beauties. America’s birthday.

The one day a year when otherwise rational adults spend hundreds of dollars on explosives because, apparently, the best way to celebrate freedom is to traumatize every dog within a three-mile radius. Meanwhile, black folks are standing at the grill, tongs in one hand, historical context in the other, wondering if we’re celebrating independence… or just really committed to potato salad.

Truthfully, it’s complicated. And if you’ve been reading this blog, you already know I have trust issues with anything described as “simple.” As a therapist, I spend a lot of time helping people tolerate emotional complexity (aka, the shit that makes you go “fuck!”). Life rarely hands us neat little boxes labeled “happy” or “sad.” More often it’s a Costco-sized variety pack of emotions dumped on the kitchen table.

The Fourth of July is exactly that. We can acknowledge that the Declaration of Independence didn’t exactly include everybody. We can recognize that freedom has always been distributed like concert tickets – some people got front-row seats, some got nosebleeds, and some weren’t even allowed in the building. And we can still enjoy Auntie’s pound cake. Those things are not mutually exclusive.

Psychology has a fancy term for this ability: dialectical thinking. I call it being grown. Being grown means saying: “America has some unresolved childhood trauma.” AND… “I’ll take another helping of brisket.” See? Emotional maturity. Somewhere along the way, we’ve been taught that every feeling has to pass a loyalty test. So, if you criticize the country, you must hate it. If you celebrate the holiday, you must be ignoring history. If you enjoy the fireworks, somebody on social media will eventually accuse you of something requiring a 14-slide Instagram explanation.

No, thank you.

Therapy teaches us that two opposing truths can exist at the same time without either one canceling the other out. I can appreciate progress without pretending we’ve arrived. I can love this country enough to expect better from it. I can celebrate resilience without romanticizing suffering. That’s not confusion. That’s psychological flexibility. And psychological flexibility is one of the healthiest traits a person can develop. You know what isn’t healthy? Pretending everything is fine because discomfort makes other people nervous.

Black people have earned doctorates in surviving uncomfortable realities. We have laughed at family funerals because grief needed somewhere to breathe. We have danced through hard times because joy refused to wait for perfect conditions. We have turned stoops into therapy sessions long before anybody called it mental health. Our ancestors didn’t postpone joy until justice was complete. If they had, we’d still be waiting. Joy wasn’t denial. Joy was oxygen. That’s the clinical part.

Now let’s talk about the cookout. Every family has that relative who suddenly becomes a constitutional scholar after two Hennys. Somebody is going to overcook the burgers. Somebody’s going to argue about whether Juneteenth “counts more.” Somebody is definitely bringing a dish nobody asked for. And somewhere – may the ancestors intervene – a brave soul is still putting raisins in potato salad like they’re conducting a psychological experiment on the entire family. That person needs healing. Deep healing.

This Fourth of July, I’m not asking you to perform patriotism. I’m not asking you to perform outrage either. I’m asking you to practice emotional honesty. If you’re proud, be proud. If you’re conflicted, be conflicted. If you’re grateful, be grateful. If you’re grieving (like me), grieve. If you’re all of those things before dessert? Congratulations. You’re emotionally regulated. Because healing isn’t about choosing one emotion and evicting all the others. Healing is expanding your emotional capacity until your heart is big enough to hold contradiction without breaking. That’s what resilience looks like. It’s also what Black folks have been doing for centuries.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get my puppies ready for the fireworks, continue to scroll through the posts flooding my timeline about the shindig at MSG yesterday, and drink another beer. My brain work is done for today.

So, until next time… protect your peace, question your narratives, laugh whenever possible, and remember that healing does not mean you stop cracking. It means you stop pretending you don’t...