By Kamora Le’Ella Herrington
Long before I was born, my grandparents and parents were part of the Civil Rights Movement. My grandfather marched with a sign that read I Am a Man. His generation believed that if they could just convince white people of our humanity, then white people would recognize that Black people deserved rights—and more than rights, the ability simply to live without fear of murder and the daily violence of Jim Crow.
That struggle continued into my own motherhood. In 2012, Trayvon Martin was murdered, and in 2013, George Zimmerman was acquitted. At that time, I was the mother of a brand-new Black baby boy, raising him in a world that continued to murder beautiful Black boys. The acquittal was devastating, and in its wake, the hashtag Black Lives Matter was born and soon grew into a movement and an organization.
When I first heard the phrase Black Lives Matter, I understood its purpose, but I also felt a pang of sadness. Even without being a scientist, I knew that “matter” is not the same as “human.” To me, it felt like we had fallen backward: from demanding recognition of our humanity to asking to be seen as matter.
As I entered organizing and community spaces, I showed up as the autonomous mouth that I am. Yet I quickly found myself being assigned to Black Lives Matter—as if the only voice for Black people had to be part of that specific experience or organization. I want to be clear: then and now, I hold no animosity toward the people who created Black Lives Matter or toward the organization itself. But I have never been a member of any formal organization. What frustrated me was not just being lumped into a label I hadn’t chosen, but watching so many diverse and autonomous Black voices collapsed into this single “BLM” identity. All of our nuances, differences, and brilliance were being ignored.
By 2020, that frustration deepened. After George Floyd’s murder, the nation was again forced into a conversation that carried the potential of reckoning. As happens every few years, a violent and evil act of anti-Black racism was so egregious that it broke through the denial. But white supremacy always finds a way to suppress these conversations.
That year, the tactic was to attack Black Lives Matter itself. Yes, George Floyd’s murder was terrible—but, white supremacy insisted, we couldn’t talk about race or justice because BLM was supposedly “funded by George Soros,” or “created by swindlers spending donations on themselves.” Suddenly, people who usually came to me for guidance—KCC members, colleagues, even comrades—were caught up in debating those accusations.
What they didn’t see was that by doing so, they were being co-opted by white supremacy. Instead of focusing on the real question—how to create conditions for Black people to live as full, beautiful human beings—they were busy arguing over accusations and distractions. Worse, they were practicing white supremacist ways of being in their anti-racist practices.
The breaking point came one day in 2020. After yet another person approached me wanting a high-minded debate about whether Black Lives Matter was legitimate, I snapped. I said: Fuck it. I don’t give a fuck about Black Lives Matter. I’m fucking fabulous. You want to talk about that? Because the Black people I know are fucking fabulous. We are more than matter. We are fabulous. Let’s have THAT conversation.
That moment gave birth to both the phrase and the sign. I created it because I saw how BLM lawn signs had become invitations to argue, and I wanted to meet people where they were. If they insisted they couldn’t support Black Lives Matter for “fiscal” or other excuses, I recognized that as white supremacy in disguise. So I flipped the frame: Fine. Let’s not talk about BLM. That is not who I am or what I am. I am beyond that. I am fabulous.
Would you like to talk about the fabulousness of Black people? About how much more colorful, beautiful, and amazing life is with us in it? That is the conversation I invited. And that is why the sign is purple and orange—royal, vibrant and unapologetically Loud.
Now, five years later, I see how easily the origins and intentions behind movements get lost. Pop culture, even social justice pop culture, tends to flatten everything. The Black Panthers’ breakfast program, for example, was much more than just food—it was about building community power and dignity. Without understanding those roots, today’s breakfast programs cannot replicate their impact.
The same is true here. Celebrating Black people as fabulous is more than a slogan. It is work that needs to happen every day, all day—not at the expense of anyone else, but because it affirms truth. And if the phrase Black Lives Matter offends you, and Black People are Fabulous grates on your nerves, then fine: come up with your own words. Find another phrase that names the beauty and wonder of BlackAmericans. (Black is Beautiful was cool for a bit but seems to have fallen off.) But be sure to ask yourself why Black folks feel the need to keep coming up with these slogans.
