Rihanna’s “Anti” is bumping — or maybe it’s Fetty Wap’s “Trap Queen.” Obama is still in office. Issa Rae is on our screens. And while lots of the ladies are donning either shiny wigs or rocking curly manes that smell like shea butter, the fellas are stepping out in ripped biker jeans and peacoats while we all pose for mean-mug selfies that will, without a doubt, be filtered and uploaded within seconds.
The year is 2016, and it’s lit.
Beyoncé has us in formation. Drake just wants one dance. We’re vibing to K-Dot’s “untitled unmastered” or letting Kaytranada’s trance-inducing beats guide us through rooftop brunches, if not The Weeknd, or Future. Later, we come down to Solange or Frank Ocean like a soft landing. Our viral slang is showing up on T-shirts, phone cases, and nails as long as daggers. Barry Jenkins’ “Moonlight” has us swooning in theaters with a depiction of love between Black men that feels both tender and revolutionary. Everyone swears they’re reading Colson Whitehead’s “The Underground Railroad” or Ta-Nehisi Coates’ “Between the World and Me.”
And the world is still obsessed, maybe even more so, with rapping founding fathers reimagined as people of color. Influencers are making more bank than bankers. There are lines wrapped around blocks for rainbow bagels. Simone Biles, Gabby Douglas, Daryl Homer, Carmelo Anthony, and other Black athletes are making us proud at the Summer Olympics in Rio. A celebrity couple—who will eventually become known for helping other celebs in their circle get engaged—ties the knot. And the Blacksonian, dedicated to protecting our culture, opens its doors in Washington, D.C.
Is this year of peak millennial young adulthood a perfect year? No. Far from it.
A reality TV star is running for president, summoning some of the country’s ugliest demons. #OscarsSoWhite. Kanye West, still married to Kim Kardashian, is battling Taylor Swift over a misogynistic lyric. There’s protest footage on our feeds in between “Hotline Bling” memes and “Dem Thrones” jokes, in between whatever drama Issa and Molly have gotten themselves into.
Black Lives Matter, something we’ve always known, but something we now have to beg the world to believe—or maybe it isn’t begging. Maybe it’s a demand.
Philando Castile, but Black Lives Matter.
Alton Sterling, but Black Lives Matter.
So many Black bodies. So much visibility of us, our pain, our deaths, our violence, but also our music, our art, our maternal health crisis, our hair, our writing, our culture. Prince dies. The reality TV star wins.
More protests.
And yet, somehow, we’re still on fleek.
It’s what we do. We’ve always done it. Even when the country is at its cruelest, Black people find a way to keep moving and not just surviving, but creating. Building. Flexing. Loving. Laughing. Turning pain into style, grief into language, rage into rhythm.
Ten years later, you’ll think back on 2016, and what might strike you most is how triumphant and terrifying it was all at the same time. How quickly the biggest cultural moments came and went. Artists age. Artists die. And in the nostalgia, you might realize that history should be remembered the way people should be: entirely. The good, the bad, and the ugly. Because if we don’t, we will never learn. We will never get off the ride.
But for some of us? The ones who rushed into the 2010s full of hope and dreams for our adulthoods, it’ll just be nice to remember.
