What does it take for a nation to truly reckon with the meaning of race and power? The 2010s forced the United States to confront this question in unmistakable ways. Much of this shift was driven by the emergence of Black Lives Matter, the visibility of police killings of Black people, and the ways social media amplified both injustice and organizing. At the same time, new institutions dedicated to Black history opened their doors, making the past more accessible to the public.
In 2012, the killing of Trayvon Martin, an unarmed Black teenager walking home from a convenience store in Sanford, Florida, after buying candy and a drink, became a national flashpoint. He was followed and shot by a neighborhood watch volunteer who claimed self‑defense, and in 2013, a jury acquitted the shooter of criminal charges. For many Black families, the case crystallized fears that even everyday activities could be read as suspicious when performed by a Black child. It also raised urgent questions about whose safety is protected, whose fear is believed, and whose life is treated as expendable in the United States. In response to the verdict, organizers Alicia Garza, Patrisse Cullors, and Opal Tometi helped launch Black Lives Matter, initially as a hashtag and soon as a broader movement.
Garza, a longtime community organizer from Oakland focused on Black liberation and queer rights; Cullors, an artist and activist from Los Angeles with deep roots in campaigns against state violence; and Tometi, the daughter of Nigerian immigrants and a respected advocate for immigrant rights, drew on their own lives and experiences to shape the movement’s vision. Each brought a distinctive perspective and hard‑won insight from frontline organizing, which helped ensure that BLM was both intentional in its design and expansive in scope. Their message was simple but profound: Black lives should matter in practice, not just in principle.
Over the next few years, a series of high‑profile cases — Michael Brown in Ferguson, Eric Garner in New York, Tamir Rice in Cleveland, Freddie Gray in Baltimore, and others — brought people into the streets. Protesters called for an end to police brutality, greater accountability, and deeper reforms to the criminal legal system. They also challenged media narratives that criminalized Black victims while excusing state violence.
The Ferguson uprising in 2014 marked a key moment. Night after night, largely Black residents confronted heavily militarized police forces, and the images echoed around the world. Activists used Twitter, livestreams, and other digital tools to bypass traditional media, tell their own stories, and connect with supporters. This was movement work in the age of the smartphone. Yet even as these platforms empowered grassroots voices, their algorithms could amplify some messages while burying others, reminding us that technology is not a neutral conduit but a contested space shaped by corporate and political interests.
At the same time, the decade witnessed a major milestone in public commemoration: the opening of the National Museum of African American History and Culture (NMAAHC) on the National Mall in Washington, D.C., in 2016. The museum, decades in the making, offers a sweeping narrative of Black life in the United States, from the horror of slavery to the joys of cultural creation, from Reconstruction to Black Lives Matter. As we move through its galleries, we are invited to consider not only how Black history is celebrated but also how the choices about what to remember and how to remember are continuously debated, reflecting ongoing struggles over memory, identity, and justice.
The building itself, with its bronze‑colored lattice exterior and multiple levels that descend below and rise above ground, has become an architectural and symbolic landmark. As visitors descend into the museum’s lower galleries, the air seems to cool and grow quiet, footsteps echoing softly against darkened walls. A low hum of voices and distant strains of spirituals set a solemn undertone. At the base, the sight of a slave cabin and Emmett Till’s casket makes history feel immediate rather than abstract. Visitors can see Harriet Tubman’s shawl, Muhammad Ali’s gloves, Black Panther Party artifacts, and contemporary art all under one roof. The museum embodies a principle at the heart of our 2026 theme: that Black history is central to American history, not an optional chapter.
The #MeToo movement, first sparked by Black activist Tarana Burke years earlier, also came to the forefront in the late 2010s, drawing renewed attention to sexual violence and harassment. Black women’s survivor stories highlighted the intersections of race and gender in both harm and neglect. Their experiences, too often sidelined, invite us to ask how overlapping forms of discrimination intensify vulnerability and what we can learn from testimony about the burdens that Black women uniquely face. Their leadership, however, was sometimes overlooked in mainstream narratives, echoing long‑standing patterns in both feminist and civil rights movements.
Politically, the decade ended with an increase in Black women’s representation in Congress and in local offices nationwide. The 2018 midterm elections, in particular, brought a wave of diverse candidates into office. That year, a record number of Black women served in Congress compared with the start of the decade, and more than 300 Black women ran for office at the federal, state, and local levels. These shifts reflected sustained organizing around voting rights, criminal justice reform, and economic justice, often led by Black women.
In the arts, Black creators continued to redefine global culture. Films like Moonlight, Black Panther, Get Out, and Selma offered new representations of Black life, history, and imagination. Musicians like Kendrick Lamar, Beyoncé, J. Cole, and others used their platforms to address racism, mental health, community, and resilience. Social media also enabled a flourishing of Black voices in journalism, podcasting, and commentary. Yet even as Black stories found wider audiences, many artists and filmmakers continued to face barriers in reaching the mainstream. Streaming platforms, box‑office decision‑makers, and industry algorithms still helped determine which voices were promoted and which remained on the margins, often reinforcing existing inequities. Naming these hurdles is essential to understanding both the celebration and the continuing challenges of Black artistic expression.
Within the frame of A Century of Black History, the 2010s underscore how history and the present are constantly in dialogue. Movements like Black Lives Matter explicitly draw on the legacies of previous generations, invoking names like Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, Angela Davis, and Fannie Lou Hamer while also forging new tactics and analyses. The opening of NMAAHC institutionalizes that history, even as activists outside its walls continue to make new chapters.
The decade challenges us to think about who controls the camera and the microphone. Videos of police violence can be tools of accountability, but they can also desensitize or retraumatize viewers. Hashtags can mobilize quickly, but lasting change requires organizations, policies, and long‑term commitment. Looking back from 2026, the 2010s ask us to balance urgency with strategy. One path forward is the establishment of independent, community‑led oversight commissions empowered to review law‑enforcement practices and supported by stable public funding. Building such bodies can help ensure that progress does not depend only on the momentum of a single moment, but is reinforced by durable structures for accountability and reform.
They also remind us that honoring Black history is not just about reverence for the past, but about supporting those who put their bodies and reputations on the line today. The young people who marched, organized bail funds, crafted policy proposals, and cared for their communities are themselves part of the historical record we are duty‑bound to remember.
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