Language fails us when we try to talk about how history stays alive in the present. It’s hard. We look for words that capture the heavy, thick air of a legacy that hasn't actually ended. This is where Christina Sharpe’s work comes in, specifically her massive contribution to how we think about in the wake of blackness and being. It’s a mouthful, right? But it’s not just academic jargon. Honestly, it’s about how to live in a world that was built on the logic of the slave ship, even if those ships stopped sailing a long time ago.
People often treat "the wake" like it's just a fancy word for "the aftermath." It isn't.
Think about a boat cutting through the ocean. The wake is that churning, foaming water that follows behind. It’s the track left by the vessel. If you’re in that wake, you’re being tossed around by a force that has already passed, yet the water is still violent. That’s the core of in the wake of blackness and being. It’s the realization that Black life is lived in the persistent vibration of a history that refuses to stay in the past.
The Weather of Anti-Blackness
Sharpe uses this brilliant metaphor: the weather.
When it rains, you don’t ask why the sky is "attacking" you. It’s just the atmosphere. You grab an umbrella or you get wet. She argues that anti-Blackness isn't just a series of "unfortunate events" or specific bad people. It’s the total climate. It’s the air we breathe. This perspective changes everything. If racism is the weather, then being "in the wake" means finding a way to breathe when the atmosphere itself is designed to be breathless.
It’s heavy stuff. But it’s also deeply practical for understanding the news today.
We see this in the way medical algorithms bias against Black patients or how urban planning still follows the lines of 1930s redlining maps. These aren't accidents. They are the "wake" of the Trans-Atlantic slave trade. The ship moved on, but the waves are still hitting the shore. This isn't about being "stuck" in the past; it’s about acknowledging that the past hasn't finished its work yet.
Wake Work as a Survival Strategy
So, what do you do? If the wake is everywhere, how do you exist? Sharpe calls the response "wake work."
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This isn't your standard social justice activism. It’s more intimate. It’s a mode of "looking" and "being" that refuses to ignore the dead while fiercely protecting the living. It’s about care. Real, gritty, difficult care. Wake work means performing a kind of "orthography of the wake"—basically, learning to write and live in ways that honor Black humanity even when the "weather" says that humanity doesn't exist.
I think about the way families keep archives. Those shoeboxes of old photos? That’s wake work.
Maintaining those connections when history tried to sever them is a radical act of being. It’s a rejection of the idea that Black life is only defined by its trauma. Yes, the wake is violent, but "being" in the wake is also about the creative, beautiful, and often quiet ways people keep each other whole. It’s a weird mix of mourning and living at the same time.
Why Memory is a Tool, Not a Burden
There’s this common misconception that focusing on history—specifically the history of slavery—is "self-victimizing." You’ve heard it before. "Why can't we just move on?"
The concept of in the wake of blackness and being answers that. We can’t move on because the structure of the world hasn't changed its foundation. To pretend the wake isn't there is like pretending the ocean is calm while you’re drowning in a five-foot swell. It’s dangerous.
The Disaster of Total Forgetting
In In the Wake: On Blackness and Being, Sharpe looks at images. She looks at how Black people are photographed in the aftermath of disasters, like the earthquake in Haiti. She notices how the world views these images as "natural." We see Black suffering and we think, "Oh, that’s just how it is."
That’s the "weather" again.
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Wake work involves looking at those images differently. It involves seeing the person, the history, and the systemic failure, rather than just the "spectacle" of pain. It’s about resisting the urge to look away and also resisting the urge to look without feeling. You have to sit with the discomfort. It’s the only way to actually see what’s happening.
Living in the Ruptures
Existence isn't a straight line. Life happens in the gaps.
If you look at the work of other scholars like Saidiya Hartman or Fred Moten, they’re all dancing around similar themes. Hartman talks about the "afterlife of slavery." Moten talks about the "undercommons." They are all trying to map out a space where Blackness exists outside of the gaze of the state.
Being in the wake is about finding those ruptures. It’s about the joy found in the middle of a storm. It’s not a "despite" kind of joy—it’s a joy that knows the storm intimately and still chooses to dance. This is the nuance that a lot of people miss. They think the wake is just about sadness. It’s not. It’s about the sheer, defiant fact of being when you weren't supposed to survive.
The Problem with "Post-Racial" Myths
The biggest lie of the 21st century was the idea that we were "post-racial." We saw a Black president and thought the ship had finally docked.
But the wake doesn't care who is at the helm.
The structures—the prison system, the wealth gap, the environmental racism—all stayed in place. Understanding in the wake of blackness and being means realizing that progress isn't a ladder. It’s more like a tide. Sometimes it goes out, sometimes it comes in, but the ocean is always there. This realization is actually freeing, in a weird way. It stops you from being surprised when things get hard again and lets you focus on the actual work of building shelters.
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Practical Steps for Engaging with Wake Work
If you’re trying to apply these ideas to your own life or your own understanding of the world, it’s not about reading a textbook and calling it a day. It’s about a shift in perspective. You have to start seeing the "weather" for what it is.
Audit your archives.
Look at the stories you tell about your family, your neighborhood, or your country. What’s missing? Who is in the "wake" of those stories? Start filling in the gaps. This isn't just for Black people—everyone lives in the wake of this history, just from different positions on the ship.
Practice "Radical Care."
In the wake, care is a form of resistance. This means checking in on people, but also protecting their dignity. It means refusing to participate in the "spectacle" of Black pain. If you see a video of violence online, ask yourself: does watching this help, or am I just consuming the wake?
Read the actual sources.
Don’t just take a summary. Go to the source. Read Christina Sharpe. Read In the Wake. Her writing is poetic and difficult, but that’s because the subject is difficult. It forces you to slow down. In a world of 15-second TikToks, slowing down is its own kind of wake work.
Acknowledge the "Non-Event."
A lot of history is focused on "big events"—wars, elections, riots. But the wake is mostly made of "non-events." It’s the daily grind. It’s the microaggressions at work. It’s the subtle way a teacher treats a student. Pay attention to the small things. That’s where the weather is most felt.
Build for the long haul.
The wake isn't going away tomorrow. Understanding this helps prevent burnout. If you know the weather is going to be rough for a while, you build better houses. You invest in community. You stop looking for "one-and-done" solutions and start looking for sustainable ways to support each other.
The reality of in the wake of blackness and being is that it’s an ongoing process. It’s a way of standing in the world with your eyes wide open. It’s about mourning what was lost, but more importantly, it’s about the fierce, unwavering commitment to the people who are still here, breathing in the thick of it. There is no "after" the wake—there is only the work we do within it.