By Christopher Tru Hood

Chicago, IL —

The sun beats harder on Father’s Day weekends when Juneteenth is near. The air feels heavier—not just from the heat rising off the streets of Chicago but from the weight of memory, history, and unspoken truths. For Black fathers like me, these two holidays—though separate on the calendar—collide in spirit.

I’m a father. I’m a Black man raising children in a city where violence steals headlines, and silence steals hope. And every June, I brace myself—not just for the barbecue and the church shout-outs, but for the sting of being forgotten.

Because every year on social media, I see it:

“Happy Father’s Day to all the single moms too.”

And every time, I ask:

Would we ever dare say, “Happy Mother’s Day to the single dads”?

We wouldn’t.

Society uplifts the Black mother—and she deserves it—but it forgets the Black father, even when he shows up.

This year, Juneteenth falls just four days after Father’s Day. And I can’t help but reflect. I didn’t meet my own father until I was 18—I found him on Myspace. By the time I started building a bond with him, it was already too late. He passed before we could create the kind of memories people write Hallmark cards about.

So now, as a father myself, I carry both the legacy and the loss.

I hold my son tighter.

I teach my daughters louder.

And I ask: What does freedom really mean for Black fathers?

According to the National Museum of African American History and Culture, Juneteenth commemorates June 19, 1865—when Union troops arrived in Galveston, Texas, to enforce the Emancipation Proclamation. Two and a half years late. For 250,000 enslaved Black people in Texas, freedom came slowly. It came after silence.

Just like recognition for Black fathers.

When Juneteenth and Father’s Day overlap—as they did in 2022 and will again in future years—the connection runs deeper than coincidence. Both are about freedom: one from physical bondage, the other from generational invisibility.

Too many Black fathers are still enslaved in the eyes of society—tied down by stereotypes, denied tenderness, mocked when present, blamed when absent. And still, we fight to be seen. To be celebrated. To be free.

This year, I stood beside my daughter at a Juneteenth festival. We performed together. It was more than a duet—it was a declaration:

Papa is present. Papa is free. Papa matters.

But hours later, outside that same event, I saw young girls fighting in the street. Police pulled up. Sirens screamed. And I had to ask—is this what we fought for? The celebration was cut short by chaos, and the contrast was painful: joy and trauma, side by side.

Meanwhile, on Sunday morning, I walked into church with my camera in one hand and Fatherhood in the other. The sanctuary was filled with smiles, affirmations, and applause for the dads. But once you step outside? That same celebration doesn’t follow us. Recognition rarely lasts past the benediction.

And it’s not just emotional. The physical strain is real. According to Climate Central, neighborhoods like Englewood suffer from extreme heat far more than white, suburban communities. On a weekend meant to lift us up, we were literally sweating just to stay upright.

Juneteenth reminds us of what was taken—and what was reclaimed.

Father’s Day reminds us of who we are—even when no one else says it.

So to every Black father out there:

You are seen.

You are needed.

You are free—even when it doesn’t feel like it.

And to America: Don’t just give us a holiday.

Give us honor.

Give us space.

Give us the mic.

Because Papa was a free man—and he’s still fighting to be remembered.