What Black Joy Means to Me

This past weekend was the Black Joy Parade—an event that began in 2018 in Oakland, California, the birthplace of the Black Panther Party. That alone is one more reason Oakland feels so special.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what Black joy means—not as a phrase, but as a feeling. As something lived, noticed, and remembered in the body.

The first moment that comes to mind is one I didn’t expect to stay with me.

I had brought my oldest with me to an alternative transportation general meeting just days ago. We walked in, found spaces to occupy, and settled into the rhythm of the room. Then, quietly, he leaned over and pointed something out to me—nearly everyone in the room was white.

He didn’t say it with judgment. It was just observation—clear, simple, honest. He was stating the obvious far earlier than I did when I was growing up. In that moment, I realized how early we begin to notice who is present—and who isn’t.

As a Chinese mother raising children who are both Asian and African, I’m always aware—sometimes quietly, sometimes sharply—of the spaces we move through, how we are seen, and how we come to see ourselves within them.

That moment stayed with me.

And then I thought about the Black Joy Parade he attended this past weekend.

The difference was immediate and tangible.

It was visceral—something that envelops you. Not something you had to analyze or name. It was just there.

Black faces—folks from the area and from the Diaspora—were everywhere. Families, elders, children, laughter, music, movement—all in one place. The space was overflowing—with fullness, with ease. I remember thinking: this is what it feels like to not be the only one.

In those spaces, a certain exhale happens. A softening. A widening. An expansiveness of spirit. You’re not scanning the room in the same way. You’re not calculating how you’re being perceived and what cards to play where and with whom.

You’re just… there.

No mental gymnastics.

I felt something similar at a staff retreat I attended—where most of the room was also Black—and I didn’t have to travel to Africa to experience it.

There was warmth. Familiarity. Not because I knew everyone, but because there was a shared understanding—something unspoken yet deeply felt.

It wasn’t about sameness. It was about recognition.

And then I find myself traveling further back in my mind—to when I did travel to Africa with my older two kids, when they were still quite small. One was an infant, and the other a toddler.

I remember being there and feeling something settle in me.

A sense of: I am home.

Sure, I didn’t grow up there. Sure, my skin color differed from my in-laws. And yet, none of that disrupted the feeling. We sat at the same table, shared meals, talked about the world—and something settled in me.

So what is “home”?

I’ve come to think of it less as a location and more as a condition.

Home is where you don’t have to explain yourself.

Home is where your presence isn’t questioned.

Home is where you can exist without translation.

And as someone who moves between cultures—raising children who do the same—that sense of home is something I’ve learned to recognize, seek out, and create.

Perhaps most simply:

Home is where you can just be as you are.

You are safe.

You are loved.

You matter.

So when I think about Black joy through that lens, it becomes clearer.

Black joy is not just celebration—though it absolutely includes that.

It’s not just resilience—though it has been shaped through it.

Black joy is also:

• ease
• presence
• fullness
• expression without constraint

It is laughter that does not need to be justified.

It is style, movement, language, and connection that doesn’t need to be adjusted.

It is being surrounded, reflected, and affirmed—without effort.

That’s what I wanted to hold onto. That’s what I wanted my kids to feel, recognize, and remember—not just in specific places or events, but as something they carry with them.

A knowing that there are spaces where you belong without question—

and that you can also create that sense of space wherever you are.

So when we talk about Black joy, I hope that for us, it is not an abstract idea.

It’s that moment of noticing.

That moment of contrast.

That moment of recognition.

That moment of coming home.

And maybe, in the simplest terms:

It’s the freedom to be exactly who you are—and to know that it is more than enough.

We are the ones our ancestors have been waiting for.

We are the ancestors we have been waiting for.

When I think about what it means to carry that feeling forward—to not just experience it in fleeting moments, but to remember it, to embody it, to make it visible in everyday life—I realize that creation itself can be a form of that remembering.

Since the kids and I all enjoy wearing hoodies, the idea to create a Black Joy hoodie for us came naturally. I invited them into the process, and together, we co-designed something that came from that same place—a place of remembering.

Not as a statement to explain, but as something to hold onto.

A reminder of what it feels like to be surrounded, reflected, and at ease.

A small, tangible way to carry that sense of home with us—wherever we are—and to let that light reach beyond us.