When Did We Stop Calling Each Other Brother and Sister?

From “Black Is Beautiful” to Words That Tear Us Down — Have We Forgotten Who We Are?

There was a time when calling another Black man “Brother” meant something. When referring to a Black woman as “Sister” was more than a greeting. It was a declaration of respect, a recognition of our shared struggle and an acknowledgment that, regardless of our circumstances, we belonged to one another.

There was a time when we proudly proclaimed, “Black Is Beautiful!” We wore our Afros like crowns. We raised our fists in solidarity. We embraced the term “Afro-American” because we were determined to define ourselves rather than allow others to define us. We were a people fighting to reclaim our identity, our dignity and our rightful place in a country that had spent generations trying to convince us we were less than. And somewhere along the way, something happened.

How did we go from calling each other “Brother” and “Sister” to casually referring to one another as “niggas,” “bitches” and “hoes”? How did we go from celebrating the beauty of Black women to allowing language that degrades them to become part of our everyday conversations? How did we go from demanding that the world respect us to sometimes speaking to one another with the very disrespect we once marched against? And perhaps the most uncomfortable question of all: Have we become so accustomed to being disrespected that we have learned to disrespect ourselves?

Now, before somebody accuses me of being old-fashioned, out of touch or unable to understand today's generation, let me make something clear. I understand that language evolves. I understand that some young people use these words as terms of affection, friendship or cultural expression. I understand the argument that taking ownership of a word once used to oppress us somehow removes its power.

But I have a question. If changing the meaning of a word is supposed to empower us, why does so much of the language we have embraced still sound like the language of our oppression? You can put a new coat of paint on an old house, but if the foundation is rotten, the house is still in trouble. And I wonder whether some of the language we have normalized is revealing cracks in the foundation of how we see ourselves.

Think about it. During the civil rights and Black Power movements, our ancestors understood something powerful: Before you can change how the world sees you, you must first change how you see yourself. That is why “Black Is Beautiful” was more than a slogan. It was a revolution of the mind. It was a declaration that our skin was not a curse, our hair was not a defect, our features were not something to be ashamed of and our identity was not something to apologize for. We were teaching our children to walk with their heads held high in a world that had spent centuries trying to make them bow.

So how did we go from teaching our children to be proud of who they are to raising a generation that sometimes uses the language of degradation as casually as saying good morning? And what troubles me even more is what has happened to the way we speak about our women. Let me be careful here. Black people are not the only people who disrespect women. Misogyny exists in every race, culture and community. But I am speaking to my own community because I love my own community.

I am speaking as a Black man who remembers when our mothers, grandmothers, sisters and daughters were celebrated as the backbone of our families. These were the women who worked two jobs, stretched one paycheck into three, raised children, held families together and somehow found enough strength to encourage everybody else when nobody was encouraging them. These were the women who stood beside our men during the civil rights movement, organized communities, filled churches, registered voters and helped carry the struggle for freedom on their shoulders.

And today, in too many corners of our culture, we have allowed words that reduce women to sexual objects to become entertainment. We dance to them. We laugh at them. We repeat them. We purchase the music that celebrates them. And sometimes, we even teach our children to accept them. Then we turn around and wonder why respect seems to be disappearing. You cannot consistently degrade a person with your words and then expect your actions to convince them of their worth.

Now, I know someone will say, “It's just music.” Someone else will say, “They're just words.” And another will say, “You are taking this too seriously.” But words have always mattered. Words were used to justify slavery. Words were used to enforce segregation. Words were used to make Black children believe they were inferior. And words were also used to inspire a movement.

“I Have a Dream.”

“Say It Loud — I'm Black and I'm Proud.”

“Black Is Beautiful.”

Those words lifted a people. So don't tell me words don't matter. If words were powerful enough to help liberate our minds, why would we pretend they are powerless when they contribute to tearing down our self-image?

Which brings me to the question I have been wrestling with. Is it self-hate?

Perhaps, in some cases, it is. Perhaps some of us have internalized so many negative messages about ourselves that we no longer recognize them as negative. Perhaps we have become so comfortable with disrespect that we mistake it for affection. Perhaps commercial success has convinced us that anything that sells must somehow be acceptable. Or perhaps we have simply forgotten that freedom is about more than removing the chains from our bodies. It is also about removing the chains from our minds.

But I refuse to believe that an entire generation hates itself. I see too many young Black men and women doing extraordinary things, loving their communities, celebrating their heritage and building futures their grandparents could only dream about. The problem is not that our young people have no pride. The problem is that too often the loudest voices in our culture are not the voices teaching them what genuine pride looks like. And those of us who know better have sometimes remained silent.

We cannot blame everything on the music industry, social media or today's generation when we, as parents, grandparents, community leaders and elders, have a responsibility to teach what we expect the next generation to practice. We cannot complain about young men disrespecting women while excusing that same behavior among grown men. We cannot demand respect from society while refusing to demonstrate respect in our own homes. And we cannot continue to celebrate the sacrifices of our ancestors every February while ignoring the values they fought to instill in us the other 11 months of the year.

There is something profoundly troubling about a people who once risked their lives to be called Mr., Mrs. and Miss, only for some of their descendants to embrace words that strip away that same dignity. Our ancestors fought to be recognized as human beings. They fought to be called by their names. They fought so that their children would never have to answer to the degrading labels imposed upon them. Surely, we owe them more than turning yesterday's insults into today's introductions.

I am not suggesting that changing our vocabulary will solve every problem facing Black America. It will not eliminate poverty, improve our schools, end violence or erase systemic inequality. But I am suggesting that how we speak about ourselves is connected to how we value ourselves. And how we value ourselves influences how we treat one another.

Maybe it is time to bring back some of the language that reminded us of our greatness. Maybe it is time for our young men to understand that calling a woman “Queen” means very little if you treat her like anything but one. Maybe it is time for our young women to understand that their worth cannot be measured by social media likes, physical appearance or someone else's approval. Maybe it is time to remind our children that being Black is not something to overcome. It is something to embrace. And maybe, just maybe, it is time for us to stop confusing cultural popularity with cultural progress. Because everything that becomes popular does not necessarily move us forward.

I think about the men and women who came before us. Those who marched, prayed, protested, sacrificed and sometimes died so that we could stand a little taller. I wonder what they would think if they could hear some of the conversations we have normalized today. Would they recognize the pride they worked so hard to restore? Would they understand how words once intended to humiliate us became words we now use to greet one another? Or would they ask us the same question I am asking today? What happened to the brothers and sisters?

As I close this View from a Pew, I want to leave you with this thought. The greatest tragedy would not be that someone else convinced us we were less than. The greatest tragedy would be that, after generations of fighting to prove our worth, we began speaking and behaving as though we had forgotten it ourselves.

We do not have to agree on every word or every cultural expression to agree on one fundamental truth: Our people deserve dignity. Our women deserve respect. Our children deserve examples worth following. And our ancestors deserve a legacy worth protecting.

We once shouted “Black Is Beautiful” because the world needed to hear it. Perhaps it is time to shout it again. Not simply from a stage, in a song or during Black History Month, but in our homes, our schools, our neighborhoods and, most importantly, in the way we speak to and about one another. Because the real measure of Black pride is not how loudly we proclaim it. It is how consistently we practice it.

And before we ask the world to respect us, perhaps we should ask ourselves a question that ought to make every one of us think: If our ancestors fought so hard to restore our dignity, why are we sometimes so willing to give it away?