We Never Forgot: A Juneteenth Reflection on Black Herbal Legacy
For a long time, we were told we were disconnected.
Disconnected from our language.
Disconnected from our land.
Disconnected from our medicine.
But the truth is, we were never really gone.
Not fully.
What was once tea leaves and bark from back home became wild herbs gathered along fence lines and backwoods. What was once a full apothecary became molasses poultices, cast iron tonics, hot toddies and camphor pouches swinging from children’s necks. Our ancestors turned scraps into treasure.
Maybe it was never just about existing.
Maybe it was about remembering who we were.
They tried to make Onesimus invisible.
Just another enslaved man in Puritan Boston.
But when smallpox came, and the doctors had nothing,
He remembered.
Not from a textbook.
From the elders.
From back home.
He explained how a small cut was made, how the pus was placed beneath the skin, how the body learned to fight. He shared what the elder women had practiced long before it was called science, the one that kept their villages alive. And they didn’t believe him—until they had no choice.
And even then, they remembered what he taught—just not who taught it.
But we know who he was.
Harriet wasn’t just a conductor. She was a healer.
Long before she led people out of the South, she led fevers out of bodies. She walked with a Bible in one hand and wild plants in the other. She knew what root to rub on the swollen joints of a runaway. She knew how to hush a cough with a poultice made in the dark.
They talk about her bravery.
They never mention her medicine bag.
She carried more than freedom in her footsteps.
She carried balm.
And Nearest Green… while others were building empires off his recipe, he was working the still like his ancestors worked the soil.
He understood plants.
Understood process.
Understood patience.
He fermented herbs into memory, into something that burned the throat and warmed the chest. And while they put his name in small print, we remember.
Our people didn’t just carry stories.
We carried seeds.
Even when we weren’t allowed to own land, we still knew what to plant.
Even when they took the drums, our hands still knew the rhythm of the soil.
Hibiscus, called zobo in Nigeria, karkadé in Sudan, and bissap in Senegal, was boiled down into red elixirs long before it became trendy in Western tea aisles. It was how we welcomed guests, how we cooled the heat, how we held on to joy when joy felt far away.
And then there’s mint.
The plant that spread like gospel across gardens and kitchens.
From North African markets to Southern porches, you’ll find it in tea glasses, tucked behind ears, rubbed on temples, steeped into strong pots when the body felt heavy.
It’s familiar.
Faithful.
It followed us well.
And then there are the ones we left behind.
African Wormwood—once a staple in southern Africa—rarely crosses the ocean now. But it lived in the bundles tied at the hip of grandmothers who walked barefoot to collect what they needed. Sharp. Bitter. It stayed strong in poor soil, just like the women who made do with what they had.
Juneteenth didn’t free us all at once.
Some got the news late.
Some still ain’t get it.
And even now, some of us are walking around not knowing what’s ours.
Still treating our traditions like secondhand stories.
Still thinking our medicine has to come with a white coat and a warning label to be taken seriously.
But on June 19th, we pause.
We celebrate the day the last enslaved folks in Galveston heard what had already been true: you are no longer bound.
And that’s what this moment feels like, too.
The unveiling of our medicine.
The moment we stop waiting for permission and remember we were always the ones.
Always the healers.
Always the midwives.
Always the caretakers of soil and sorrow.
Freedom and healing walk hand in hand.
And both have been delayed far too long.
So today we’re not just bridging a gap between African herbalism and African American tradition. We are unveiling the truth that they were never apart.
African herbalism came with us.
In the plaits of our hair.
In the soft soil under our fingernails.
In the way we never stopped believing that healing was ours to carry.
Even now, when we mix herbs into honey or grind leaves for salve,
We’re returning home.
Because it’s time.
We grow lemon balm in garden beds our ancestors would’ve never been allowed to own.
We write herbal protocols in our own names.
We teach our children what was nearly stolen.
And we do it with excellence.
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