When I was a freelance writer, I didn’t have to pitch in February. The work came to me. The work was almost always about paying tribute to the history of Black people in this country — a history that is full of pain or stories of extraordinary human beings whose contributions to the fabric of this nation are overlooked and ignored. While it’s nice to feel wanted, every February I wonder why I don’t feel as wanted every other month. I wonder why I’m not worthy enough to speak to Black girls who are just like me in September or October. I wonder why the panel requests dry up come March 1 or why the achievements of Black people, specifically Black women, aren’t lauded every month. They should be, but the truth is that in many classrooms and publications, they aren’t. Every February, Black women take on the emotional labour of making sure the women who came before us are recognized. The Black women who have shaped this country — and are molding its future — are continually discounted for the stories of problematic old white men.