“Michelle Obama is a man, am I right, America?”

Those wildly humiliating and inhumane words were spoken by a UFC fighter during a post-fight interview at the White House last weekend. The event itself was not on my agenda. I don’t enjoy mixed martial arts, and I had other things to do that day, such as washing my hair. My life would have been unchanged if I never heard another word about it.

Yet the next day, my news feed was full of outrage, analysis, and solidarity. Acquaintances changed their profile pictures. Commentators weighed in. Everybody had something to say.

What happened in my own body surprised me less. The tightened chest. The fleeting lightheadedness. The familiar combination of sorrow and anger. It reminded me that racism has primary, secondary, and tertiary targets.

The primary target was Michelle Obama.

The secondary target was everyone who witnessed the remark live.

The tertiary target was people like me—those who knew enough to avoid the event altogether, yet still had to absorb its aftershocks.

I have often defined racism as a compulsion to antagonize Black folks who are minding their own business. I have witnessed that compulsion. I have been its target. Sometimes it has come from strangers. Sometimes it has come from people I know. Sometimes it has even come from fellow Friends.

Black Joy is Essential

This is why Black joy has become an essential part of my ministry.

For over a century and a half, Juneteenth was celebrated in Black communities as a uniquely American commemoration of liberation. A few years ago, the United States finally recognized Juneteenth as a federal holiday. Some would argue it was the least the government could do. Others would argue it wasn’t nearly enough.

Perhaps both are true.

Still, we do not refuse to do the easy things simply because they are easy. We take the victories where we find them and build upon them.

The centering of Black joy is one of those victories. Too often, Black history is presented through the lens of suffering alone. We remember the martyrs. We remember the movement leaders. We remember the injustice. All of those things matter.

But Black life is not defined solely by what we have survived. It is also defined by what we have created.

It is defined by laughter, style, dance, music, family reunions, cookouts, step shows, church anniversaries, neighborhood festivals, nicknames, inside jokes, and traditions passed from one generation to another. It is defined by people finding ways to celebrate despite having every reason not to.

Joy through a different lens

Some may ask why I insist on calling it “Black joy.” The answer is simple: joy is often culturally specific.

Most of us have little trouble recognizing joy when it resembles our own cultural expectations. The haka of the Māori. Irish step dancing. Christmas caroling. Songs passed down across generations. Communities generally understand that these practices carry meaning for the people who cherish them.

Black joy deserves the same recognition. Yet Black cultural expressions are frequently viewed through a different lens. Black hairstyles are called unprofessional. Black worship traditions are called excessive. Black celebrations are labeled disruptive. The very things that bring life to a community are often interpreted as evidence that something is wrong.

Black people are used to our joy being seen as disruption. Our graduation celebrations are policed. Our bodies are surveilled. Our enthusiasm is interpreted as aggression. Our confidence becomes arrogance. The urgency of our joy is often viewed as too loud, too much, or somehow inappropriate.

Recognizing Black joy, then, becomes an act of hospitality. It asks us to pause before judging what is unfamiliar. It asks us to consider that another person’s celebration may be every bit as meaningful as our own. It asks us to recognize that our society has trained all of us to see some cultural expressions as normal and others as suspect.

Friends encounter this challenge in our own communities.

A challenge for Friends

Research conducted by Friends General Conference in early 2026 found that many participants in newcomer focus groups—many of whom happened to be Black—expressed interest in programmed worship as an introduction to Quakerism. Some also expressed concern about attending an unprogrammed meeting for worship without understanding the expectations. They worried about doing something wrong. They worried about disrupting the experience.

That concern did not emerge from nowhere. Many Black people have spent their lives receiving messages that our natural ways of speaking, celebrating, grieving, worshiping, and gathering are somehow inappropriate. It is only natural that some would carry those concerns into a new religious community.

This is why hospitality requires more than simply opening the door. We cannot invite newcomers into our communities and then demand that they become exactly like us. We especially cannot do so within a faith tradition that believes in continuing revelation.

Recognize our joy

When I ask Friends to recognize Black joy, I am not asking anyone to flatten the diversity of Black experiences. Black joy looks different from family to family, city to city, and region to region.

I am asking Friends to sit with the discomfort that may arise when encountering joy expressed differently than their own. I am asking Friends to observe before judging. To appreciate before correcting. To remain open to the possibility that God is present in cultural practices we do not immediately understand.

Yes, Michelle Obama was once again insulted on an international stage by someone who chose cruelty over humanity. But for every public incident that makes the news, countless Black people experience smaller versions of that same devaluing every day.

That is why celebrations like Juneteenth matter. They are not simply commemorations of freedom from bondage. They are affirmations of the freedom to be who we are, in the ways that we are. And the freedom to do so without fear of spiritual, social, or physical attack.