Galveston, Texas, 1863. Slavery had not ended here. Not even close. Abraham Lincoln had issued the Emancipation Proclamation — begrudgingly. Not because he was morally opposed to slavery (he wasn’t trying to abolish it where it already existed), but because he needed a win. He needed Black bodies — soldiers, laborers, leverage — to tilt the war in the Union’s favor. By any means necessary.
So miss me with that “Lincoln freed the slaves” nonsense. And while you’re at it, stop calling him The Great Emancipator. That title never fit.
Truth is, the Proclamation only applied to Confederate states still in rebellion — not to the loyal slaveholding states in the Union. And even in the South, it had no real power unless Union troops were there to enforce it. Which is why freedom didn’t reach Galveston until June 19, 1865, when General Gordon Granger rolled in with federal troops and announced that “all slaves are free.”
Two and a half years late.
That’s the day we call Juneteenth — our true Independence Day. The day the last of us were told we were free, even if we weren’t yet treated like it. It’s not just a historical date. It’s a reminder that freedom has always arrived late for us. Delayed. Denied. Dangled. But never fully delivered.
And yet—we celebrate.
We celebrate because our people took that delayed declaration and made it a ritual of remembrance, resistance, and joy. In the face of grief and ghosts, we gather. We wear red (purple & gold for me), we eat red, we drink red—red velvet cake, hibiscus tea, and that strawberry soda. We pour libations for our ancestors. We sing spirituals, dance, and step. We tell our children the truth because the textbooks won’t. And we smile wide in spite of it all.
So, before I sip my strawberry soda this year, I’m taking a breath to remember. To reflect. To honor the ones who never tasted freedom, and those who dared to imagine it anyway.
Then I plan to celebrate — with my people. Black people. On purpose. With music, laughter, memory, and love. Some of that good ole Black Joy I talk about so often. Not because America gave it to us, but because we took it — and we made it sacred.
