[Forgetting] The Act of Being a Black Man

By Jeff Kangar

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to move forward. To heal. To forget.

They say that’s part of the process — forget what’s happened, let it go, keep pushing. But how do you forget when you’re not even sure what parts you’re allowed to let go of? Or worse, when forgetting feels like abandoning the truth?

The longer I live, the more history stops being abstract and starts becoming personal. It shows up in patterns, in conversations, in systems that weren’t built with us in mind. Even when it’s written down, even when it’s documented, it’s hard to get people to care enough to read it — let alone act on it.

No excuses. Just real talk.
Our minds build connections between past and present. Sometimes we don’t even realize it. But we know something’s off. And it gets heavy.

I’ve found myself in rooms where I wanted to say something that mattered, but didn’t. Because I knew the cost. Because I’ve seen what happens when you speak up too boldly, too truthfully. We’ve all seen it. It’s safer to nod, to smile, to play the part. But deep down, you know the silence is taking something from you.

And while we’re navigating this constant restraint, we’re also watching — watching the news portray our neighborhoods like war zones, watching Africa get painted as primitive when it’s always been evolving, watching the world frame Black identity as something broken that needs fixing.

We’ve been conditioned to chase the shiny. To escape to places that don’t want us, while forgetting our roots, our power, our worth. We book vacations where we’re tolerated, not celebrated. And in all of that, we keep trying to prove we belong. We change our tone, our clothes, our posture — just to put others at ease. We live on edge, constantly managing someone else’s perception of us.

So how do we forget, when everything around us reminds us?

I’ve been on a journey to focus forward — to build, to compete, to create something lasting. But it’s hard when I talk to younger brothers and sisters and see how far we’re drifting from the things that actually move us forward. The dialogue matters, yes. But so does the discipline. So does the grind. The candle has to stay lit, even when it’s burning at both ends.

We need to show up in places that shape the future — in government, in trades, in tech, in education. We need carpenters, plumbers, engineers, strategists — Black excellence in every form. Not because we’re trying to prove ourselves, but because we already are enough. We just need the access. And we need each other.

Our memories — the parts we don’t forget — can be the fuel.
Let our remembering be the reason we build.

Because how can we move forward when our communities are underfunded, when our schools are failing not because of the kids, but because the system stopped showing up? When jobs don’t pay enough to keep the lights on, and too many young people find acceptance not in mentorship but in the streets?

We can’t forget that.
We shouldn’t.
But we can use it.

We can choose to build a future that remembers us — not just as survivors, but as architects of a better tomorrow. As the ones who pushed through the noise, the neglect, the doubt — and did the work anyway. Let’s make the next generation remember us as builders, thinkers, doers. As people who changed the trajectory.

One of my favorite quotes is:
“We all die. The goal isn’t to live forever, but to create something that will.”
(Chuck Palahniuk said that. And he was right.)

I don’t have all the answers. But I know this:
Good people still exist. Good energy is still out there.
And most of us just want a chance — not pity, not favors, just a real chance.

We don’t need to forget to heal.
We need to remember with purpose.
We need to build with intention.
And we need to keep going — even when it hurts.

I’m not walking into rooms just as a Black man anymore.
I’m walking in as someone qualified.
Someone who will take the bull by the horns.
Someone who will speak — even when my voice shakes.