When my mother passed, all I had left were her words.

Not the kind etched into books or engraved on plaques, but the ones carried in my memory — from Sunday morning affirmations to cautionary tales passed down at the kitchen table. Her voice was my archive. But when I went searching for more — old photographs, journals, voice recordings — I realized how much had vanished with her. It wasn’t neglect; it was the result of generations being told their stories didn’t matter. 

This was even recently reinforced for me in the beautiful story told in “Sinners,” the new blockbuster hit starring Michael B. Jordan and Miles Caton which follows Sammie, a young burgeoning musician (Caton) who attracts both good and evil with his talent. 

At a certain point, (slight spoiler ahead) the antagonist (played by Jack O’Connell) declares that he “wants our story, not our songs.” Although the movie is a supernatural work of fiction, and that scene speaks to culture vulture-ism, it still belies a wider, extremely sobering reality for many of us, especially now. 

Black families’ erasure of our histories isn’t accidental. It’s systemic.

According to a report by the Society of American Archivists, less than 1% of the archival material in U.S. repositories represents the experiences of African Americans. Meanwhile, the Library of Congress has acknowledged that Black stories have historically been excluded from official national records due to discriminatory collection practices and underfunding of Black-led preservation efforts.

That absence is not just a historical oversight — it’s an ongoing crisis. With each passing generation, we risk losing firsthand accounts of Black joy, migration, resistance, entrepreneurship, and tradition. And in a time when 60% of Americans can’t name all four of their grandparents, the loss for our community is even more acute.

We can’t wait for institutions to save us. We must become the archivists of our own lives.

Because when we don’t document ourselves, we allow others to tell half-truths or erase us. Every handwritten recipe, church program, baby photo, or voice memo is a piece of a much larger truth: that we were here — and that we mattered.

This work is urgent. Black elders — especially Baby Boomers and members of the Silent Generation — are aging quickly. The U.S. Census reports that by 2030, all Baby Boomers will be 65 or older. That means the window to collect and preserve their oral histories, cultural wisdom, and lived experiences is narrowing by the day.

And it’s not just about honoring the past. It’s about owning our future.

Creating a family archive is a political act. It is a refusal to be forgotten, a tool of cultural survival, and a foundation for intergenerational power. It ensures that our children — and their children — don’t have to rely on outsiders to tell them who they are.

The good news? We already have the tools.

We carry cameras in our pockets, have access to free cloud storage, and can record interviews over Sunday dinner. Apps like StoryCorps, platforms like The Black Archives and the Digital Diaspora Family Reunion, and initiatives like the Schomburg Center’s “In Our Own Image” collection are here to help us do the work. Start with a folder. Start with a phone call. Just start.

Because history is not just what’s in books. It’s in our homes, our attics, our memories.

And it deserves to be remembered by us, for us.