This Is How You Close Out Black History Month

PS 6X – The West Farms School | The Bronx

Yesterday at PS 6X – The West Farms School, under the leadership of Principal Jamal Holmes, something shifted.

This wasn’t just a Black History Month show. It was intentional.

Before a single note was sung, I paused the room.

I read from A Return to Love by Marianne Williamson:

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure…”

I didn’t read it to be poetic. I read it to remind the room who they are.

To remind the parents where they come from.

To remind the children whose shoulders they stand on.

To remind the community that we descend from greatness.

And we didn’t just listen — we participated.

I had the audience speak affirmations out loud. I had them declare that they are powerful. That they are amazing. That they come from greatness. A teacher stood beside me translating so that every bilingual parent in that room could stand fully inside the moment.

That foundation mattered.

Because the next selection was not random.

The next selection was “Is It Because I’m Black,” written in 1969 by Syl Johnson in response to the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. — a song born out of grief, frustration, and the collective questioning of a people navigating injustice.

When my fourth and fifth graders began singing, the room did not quiet down.

The room rose.

They chanted with the students:

“Is it because I’m Black?

Is it because I’m Black?”

Over and over.

Seven soloists stepped forward, one by one, and sang:

“The dark brown shades of my skin

only add color to my tears

that splash against my hollow bones

and rock my soul…”

They didn’t sing it timidly. They embodied it.

And every time the verse resolved, the audience knew what to do. They stood. They chanted. They lifted their voices like it mattered — because it did.

That wasn’t performance. That was participation. That was unity.

Black and Brown families in the Bronx, not divided, not separate, but standing in the same moment, asking the same question, feeling the same weight — together.

And then we answered it.

We transitioned into our original piece, “Champions,” bringing the first and second graders to join the stage. The question shifted into a declaration. Fists lifted. Voices roared. Confidence filled the room.

They didn’t just perform.

They owned the room.

Yesterday was symbolic. It was historic in its own way. Not because of grandeur, but because of alignment. It felt like a community remembering itself. It felt like togetherness. It felt like intention.

In a time where the world feels fractured, yesterday felt unified.

This is how you close out Black History Month.

With reverence.

With power.

With community.

And with children who know exactly who they are.