During Black History Month, America loves to celebrate a safe, sanitized version of Blackness that is disconnected from the radical movements that have shaped this country. It is a time of corporate tributes, MLK quotes stripped of their revolutionary context, and politicians paying lip service to Black struggle while actively working to erase us.

But for those of us who are Black, queer, and leftist, Black history isn’t something we reflect on once a year — it’s something we are still living, still creating, and still fighting for in real-time.

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Right now, one of the most important spaces where we are building that history may surprise you: TikTok.

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When I published my book, The Clear Seeds of Chaos: Foundations of Chaos Collectivism, I knew traditional media wouldn’t amplify a book that openly rejects state power and capitalism. I didn’t expect mainstream institutions to uplift the voices of Black queer leftists calling for something beyond electoral politics, beyond reform, beyond the same cycles of oppression repackaged as progress.

But I also knew I wasn’t alone—that there were thousands of us searching for new frameworks of liberation, new ways to connect, new strategies to resist. And I found them on TikTok.

TikTok has made it possible to communicate abolitionist and anti-capitalist ideas to people who may never step foot in an organizing space but who do feel the urgency of this moment.

My book has reached more people through this platform than it ever could through traditional publishing channels. Not because TikTok made it go viral, but because Black queer leftists on the app are deeply engaged in these conversations — commenting, duetting, going live to debate and build upon ideas. It’s a digital form of collective study, one that mirrors the way Black radical thinkers have always shared knowledge: outside of the institutions that were never built for us.

For years, Black Twitter was more than just a hashtag. It was an ecosystem where Black people defined culture, analyzed politics, and turned viral moments into real-world action. It was where Black queer leftists — those of us who are often left out of traditional narratives of Black activism — found our voices and found each other.

Then Elon Musk bought Twitter.

Almost overnight, the space we had built was turned against us. Hate speech skyrocketed, far-right accounts were reinstated, and Black and queer users were banned for speaking out against the very harassment Musk encouraged. Black Twitter didn’t just decline — it was actively dismantled. We were left searching for a new home.

So we moved.

TikTok became the new horizon.

TikTok isn’t just another social media platform — it’s where we are actively creating something powerful. We aren’t just posting; we are gathering, teaching, strategizing, and resisting in real-time. The platform’s structure allows us to connect in ways that Twitter never could.

Here, we go live together. We share abolitionist theory and security culture practices without the gatekeeping of academia. We fundraise for Black trans people in crisis, knowing that mainstream institutions have abandoned them. We expose police violence, organize mutual aid, and build the kind of networks that can outlast any single platform.

I spend hours on TikTok Live with my people — Black queer leftists from across the country who, like me, refuse to be erased. We talk about everything: how capitalism and white supremacy try to break us and how we fight back, how we build Black cooperative economies outside of the state, and how to sustain radical movements beyond social media.

We also hold space for joy. We laugh, we affirm one another, we share music and dance and moments of care. Because joy is also part of resistance.

TikTok allows us to do something Black queer people have always done: take what was never meant for us and turn it into something revolutionary. The platform wasn’t built for organizing, for mutual aid, for political education — but we have made it a tool of liberation. And that is exactly why the state wants to take it away.

A fascist government cannot tolerate a space where Black queer radicalism thrives. It cannot allow a platform where abolitionist politics are accessible to millions, where mutual aid circulates outside of state control, where people learn to organize without waiting for politicians to save them. The U.S. government sees what we are building on TikTok, and it terrifies them. That is why they keep suppressing our voices, shadowbanning our content, freezing our financial accounts, and threatening to shut down the app entirely.

They want us to believe that our movements are temporary. That our connections are fragile. That we will disappear if they shut down the spaces where we gather.

But they don’t understand that we have never needed permission to exist.

Every Black History Month, we are told to look back — to honor the past, to celebrate the victories of those who came before us. But what we are building now is also Black history. Black queer leftists using TikTok to organize, educate, and resist is history. The way we find each other, build community, and create radical futures in real time is part of the long tradition of Black resistance.

The state wants us to believe that we are isolated, that we are powerless, that our movements are fleeting. But history tells a different story. It tells us that we have always found ways to organize, even when they tried to silence us. It tells us that we have always built power, even in the margins. It tells us that no matter how many times they try to erase us, we are still here.

This Black History Month, I am not just reflecting on the past — I am living it. We all are. Every time we go live together. Every time we educate each other. Every time we challenge the system that was never meant for us.

We are still here. We are still building. They can’t stop what they can’t catch.

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