Black History Month is almost over. But Black history isn’t.

This week I found myself back inside Their Eyes Were Watching God byZora Neale Hurston— listening to the late Ruby Dee narrate Janie’s voice like she was my great-grandmama sitting on a Southern porch telling truths wrapped in stories.

And I was reminded of something powerful.

Zora died nearly forgotten. Buried in an unmarked grave. A literary giant whose work carried the interior lives of Black women long before it was fashionable to center us.

And yet here we are. Still reading her. Still quoting her. Still seeing ourselves in Janie Crawford — a woman who chose herself over a lifeless marriage. A woman who chose love even knowing love could cost her. A woman who returned home not defeated, but whole.

That’s Black romance.

That’s Black history.

And that’s the lineage I write in.

Because when I create women who are perfectly imperfect and men bold enough to chase them around the world, I’m not inventing something new. I’m continuing a story that women like Zora made possible.

Black love is not seasonal.

Black romance is not trendy.

Black history is not February.

It is ours. All year. All lifetime.

We honor Zora not by mourning how she left this world —

but by continuing to tell our stories boldly.

And I fully intend to keep telling mine.

With love and lineage,

Cher