The first time I ever heard the word “Juneteenth,” I was scrolling online in 2020, in the wake of George Floyd’s murder. I was 17. At that point, my idea of summer had always been shaped by one holiday: the Fourth of July. It meant backyard barbecues, popsicles in plastic lawn chairs, sparklers in my hand, and watching the grown-ups set off fireworks as we all laughed under the haze of grill smoke and blind patriotism. I genuinely believed it was a day to be grateful — to celebrate how “free” we were compared to other countries.
It’s funny, thinking that now, given the political climate we’re in.
I spent my early years outside of Flint, Michigan, where I started my education, and then moved through majority-white classrooms for the rest of my K–12 schooling. I was often the only Black girl in the room, and Black history only appeared for four weeks in February, mostly through the familiar names of Martin Luther King Jr. and Rosa Parks.
When I moved to Southern California for middle and high school, the tradition stayed the same. As I got older, my understanding of America became more complicated — one moment that still sticks with me is when I realized the irony of the Star-Spangled Banner. It proudly calls America “the land of the free,” despite being written in 1814, decades before the 13th Amendment abolished slavery. Yet, it’s still the anthem we sing with pride across the nation. Even with that contradiction, the Fourth of July still felt like the holiday to show up for.
I remember scrolling endlessly in the summer of 2020, half-ashamed that I was just learning about Juneteenth and half-angry that it had taken so long. It wasn’t just a summer holiday I’d missed — it was an essential piece of my culture and heritage. And it made me so upset that I had to learn about it in the aftermath of a brutal murder, not in a classroom where it should’ve been taught from the beginning.
About a year later, in June 2021, Juneteenth became a federally recognized holiday. And like many Black Gen Zers who grew up outside of the South or outside of Black-majority spaces, I was left wondering: What does it actually mean to claim a holiday I didn’t grow up with?
For Nyah Davis, a 22-year-old recent graduate of SUNY Oswego, Juneteenth also wasn’t part of her upbringing. “As a Caribbean-American, I didn’t grow up celebrating Juneteenth,” she says. “I first learned about the holiday in 2020 during COVID. Like many others, I was chronically online, especially on Instagram.”
She describes Juneteenth as a reminder that she is her ancestors’ wildest dreams. “While I’m not African American, I still find deep meaning in celebrating Juneteenth and helping to spread awareness about its significance,” Davis says. “In recent years, I’ve done so by sharing educational content on Instagram.”
Others share that sentiment of learning later in life—but making space for the holiday in intentional ways.
A. San.Te Goode, a 19-year-old student at San Francisco State University, says Juneteenth wasn’t something she celebrated as a child, but it became more of a family tradition as she got older. “After 2020, I realized, ‘all skin folk ain’t kinfolk,’” she says. “There would be some non-Black people who would understand the history and respect it, and many would see it as an opportunity for personal gain.”
Now, Goode says she chooses to honor Juneteenth by expressing her freedom to be Black, connecting with her ancestors, and allowing it to be a day of education and family. “As I continue, my celebration will become more solidified, and personally I will attach my spirituality to the holiday.”
I couldn’t help but feel a sting of envy when I first heard others speak about their Juneteenth memories.
For Dalyce Brown, a 27-year-old outreach and club advisor in the public higher education sector, Juneteenth was always a part of her life. “I grew up already knowing about Juneteenth due to the fact that my grandma was a part of the Black Nurses Committee in Riverside, California,” she says. “They would always put together a health fair/barbecue that was dedicated to Juneteenth.” Brown, who was around 10 years old at the time, remembers tabling with her grandmother, passing out resources, listening to music, and sharing in community joy. Her grandmother called it “Freedom Day.”
“To me, it was our version of the Fourth of July,” Brown says.
Michelle Fitzhugh-Craig, 64, an educator and media communications consultant, didn’t learn about Juneteenth until adulthood while living in Phoenix, Arizona. “I did not grow up knowing about or celebrating Juneteenth,” she says. “I first learned about it after I had a family of my own, through community organizations I volunteered with and partnered with Juneteenth Celebration, Inc.”
She eventually joined the board of that nonprofit and began making it her mission to ensure people — of all races — knew what Juneteenth stood for. After the murder of George Floyd, she says, there was a shift. “It created a call to action for Black Americans to begin to learn more about this important part of history,” Fitzhugh-Craig explains.
For Brown, the question of how we celebrate matters. “Juneteenth should be on the same level as Fourth of July — fireworks, Pan-African colors, tailgates, beaches packed with us and love,” she says. Still, she hopes Gen Z doesn’t stop at the party. “I wish we had one tradition during the time we celebrate Juneteenth where we were able to honor this day as actual Freedom… rather [than] just a cookout.”
Fitzhugh-Craig echoes a similar idea: “Juneteenth is a result of hate and fear… but it should always be celebrated in love. Love, hope, joy and freedom for all.”
As for me, claiming Juneteenth now is an act of reclamation. These days, I try to keep it simple: no school, no work if I can help it. I’ll read, relax, or just sit with my thoughts. It’s not performative — it’s permission.
Juneteenth became a federally recognized holiday during one of the most troubling times in our nation. Four years later, this country is still in crisis — especially for BIPOC communities. So no matter how you choose to celebrate this year, do so with intention. Whether it’s a cookout, a block party, a donation, or a much-needed mental health day, remember: freedom deserves to be honored — even if we’re still learning what that word means for us.