By Miah Loveday
Happy Black History Month Tigers! The verse “love your neighbor as yourself” is one I have heard countless times, quoted in churches, on social media posts and used as a moral compass for how we should treat one another. But during Black History Month, I find myself wrestling with a question that weighs heavy on my chest; “How do I love a neighbor that does not love me? How do I love a society that has historically made it, its mission not to love me?“
I am a Black woman, brown skin, brown eyes and brown locs. I am the daughter of an African American father and a Jamaican mother. My identity is layered with heritage, resilience, culture, rhythm, language and pride. These very things are in my DNA. And yet, I exist within a society that has historically marginalized people who look like me. A society that has mocked out culture, appropriated our brilliance and minimized our pain, and in the same breath expects unwavering patriotism and grace in return.Â
This “great” nation asks for unity and loyalty while simultaneously dismissing the lived experiences of Black people. It demands patriotism while tribalizing our pain. It tells us we are “too loud,” “too sensitive,” “too angry,” or “complaining too much” when we dare to speak honestly about injustice.
As I’ve grown older and become aware of the realities of this country; its good, its bad, its ugly. I’ve felt something shift in me. Love feels more complicated. It’s becoming harder to stand up for people who refuse to stand up for me. It’s becoming harder to advocate for unity, when my own community’s suffering has been ignored, minimized or politicized. That hardening scares me.
Because I do not want to be indifferent. I do not want to turn blind eye to the struggles of others simply because ours were and are overlooked. I do not want my heart to calcify itself in self-protection. But I also refuse to pretend that loving my neighbor means silencing my own pain. Loving my neighbor does not mean shrinking myself. Loving my neighbor does not mean accepting disrespect. Loving my neighbor does not mean ignoring injustice for the sake of comfort.
If anything, true love demands honesty; it demands accountability. It demands that we listen- even when what we hear makes us uncomfortable. Loving my neighbor requires me to hold up a mirror to this nation and say, “If you want my love, my loyalty, you must confront the ways you have failed to love me.” The question is whether this country is willing to love me back—not conditionally, not quietly, not when it is convenient—but fully. Until then, I am learning that loving my neighbor does not require me to erase myself, it requires me to stand firm in who I am. And that, too, is an act of love.