Cardigans and Combat Boots: Black Librarians Stay Ready
There’s a quiet power in Black librarians. A sacred defiance.
They’re not always the ones with the mic or the spotlight, but they’re the ones who remember where the bones are buried and which stories were buried with them. They are the gatekeepers of truth and the architects of memory. In a world that has made an industry out of forgetting us — Black librarians, Black archivists, Black memory workers — they hold the line.
That’s why, when I say “superhero,” I mean it with my full chest.
They don’t wear capes. They don’t fly. But they do battle — every day — with systemic erasure, budget cuts, digital decay, and the invisible weight of knowing that history is being rewritten even as they try to protect it.
And right now, we need them more than ever.
We are watching bans spread across bookshelves like wildfire. We’re seeing whole archives disappear overnight. University departments defunded. Community records misplaced or intentionally lost. The algorithm itself is starting to lie to us — search results diluted, rewritten, censored, manipulated. The digital landscape is shifting so fast it makes your head spin, and in the middle of that chaos, our stories are slipping through the cracks.
Or being pushed.
Black librarians and archivists are not just organizing materials — they are preserving truth, culture, and power. They are documenting resistance and joy. They are translating oral traditions into formats that can withstand time. They are not only curators of the past — they are architects of the future.
But let me be even more clear: they shouldn’t have to do it alone.
As someone building a decentralized memory vault — a living archive that refuses to forget — I’ve realized something vital: it doesn’t work without the people who’ve been holding memory for generations. And I’m not just talking about technology. I’m talking about relationship. I’m talking about community.
We need each other.
What I’m creating is not a replacement for libraries. It’s a response to erasure. It’s a container for stories too often left out of official records. It’s a memory infrastructure designed to survive systems that were never built to protect us in the first place. But it cannot, and will not, succeed without Black librarians and archivists at the center.
Because you know what to keep.
You know what’s sacred.
You know what’s missing — and why.
So this is a love letter. And an invitation.
If you're a Black librarian, archivist, or memory worker, I want to be in conversation with you. I want to build with you. I want to listen, support, uplift, and collaborate. Whether you're in an institution, running a community archive, freelancing, or dreaming up your own legacy — I believe your work is essential to our collective survival.
Let’s find each other. Let’s protect the stories. Let’s build memory infrastructure that can’t be erased.
This is not about perfection. It’s about protection.
It’s about creating something bigger than any one platform, app, or organization.
Because the only way we make it through this next era intact — is together.
Are you a Black librarian or archivist who wants to connect? Let’s talk. I’m building something that honors and uplifts your work. Reply to this post, send me a DM, or email me — I want to hear from you.
If you're holding memory in your community, your city, your classroom, your kitchen — I see you. Reach out. Let's archive together. Let's remember forward.