As a lifelong student of history, I’ve never been able to pull one event from the timeline and say, “This is my jam,” or “This right here—this is the shit.”

I’ve said it, of course. Probably said it too often. But none of them ever stick, because the truth is—it’s all the jam. Every revolution, every backroom betrayal, every random Tuesday that accidentally changed the world. History is the world’s longest mixtape, and it never skips a track.

I remember friends saying, “History’s boring.” Or worse, “So what?” I’d sit there thinking: You mean to tell me you can scroll for hours watching conspiracy podcasts and true-crime breakdowns, but a real story about an empire eating itself alive doesn’t do it for you?

History isn’t boring. It’s gossip that got serious—a mirror that never lies.

And sometimes, buried in the margins, there’s someone like Henrietta Wood.

Henrietta Wood wasn’t supposed to be remembered.

 Born enslaved in Kentucky around 1818. Freed in 1848. Kidnapped back into slavery in 1853 by a man named Zebulon Ward—an opportunist who saw her freedom as a clerical error he could correct for profit.

He sold her into slavery in Mississippi and Texas. Twelve years gone.

 Then emancipation came, and instead of fading quietly into “freedom,” she filed a lawsuit. Not a complaint. Not a plea. A bill.

In 1870, she sued Ward for $20,000 in federal court—a number so bold it had to make the room flinch. The trial dragged for eight years because that’s what the legal system does when it owes you something. In 1878, she won $2,500, the equivalent of about $65,000 today.

Ward paid.

 Henrietta used the money to send her son to law school.

 Tell me that’s not poetic symmetry.

She didn’t change the system. She cracked it—just enough to let the light in.

“Arthur H. Simms graduated law school in 1889, made his mark in Chicago—living proof that a mother’s lawsuit wasn’t just a story, but the starting gun for a lineage.”

Most people would’ve spent it fast, but Henrietta played a longer game.

 She had principles and foresight in a time when most folks were just trying to breathe through the next day. Survival back then wasn’t a metaphor—it was the whole assignment.

She was awarded her money just after the crash of 1877, when the country was bleeding out from economic collapse and labor riots. Chaos in the streets. Blood on the rails. And in the middle of all that noise, there she was—a newly wealthy Black woman in America. By any measure, that was nothing short of miraculous.

She didn’t just win a case; she won proof that the system could be forced, however briefly, to recognize her humanity—

 and the humanity we had fought for a hundred years earlier.

Just one year before her victory, Black people had officially become citizens under the Reconstruction Amendments. On paper, anyway. But the ink was still wet, and the promise hadn’t been delivered. Citizenship didn’t come with safety, or wealth, or power—it came with a target on your back.

It’s wild when you think about it: Lincoln said “four score and seven years ago” to define what America was supposed to mean, and here we were, a single score later, still trying to cash that promise. Henrietta Wood’s lawsuit was more than a demand for money—it was a demand for the score to finally be settled.

But history doesn’t balance its books that easily. Her win was a down payment, not a clean ledger.

Nearly five full scores—ninety-five years—passed between the ratification of the 14th Amendment in 1868, which declared Black people citizens, and the 24th in 1964, which finally said they could vote without paying for the privilege. Ninety-five years between being written into the Constitution and being let into the booth. That’s not progress; that’s a slow bleed dressed up as democracy.

And that’s what makes Henrietta Wood’s victory so damn profound. She didn’t wait for the Constitution to catch up. She didn’t wait for permission. In a time when her citizenship was still a technicality and her humanity was a debate; she walked into a courtroom and forced the system to do what the law had promised but hadn’t yet learned how to deliver—recognize her.

The same law they had fought and bled for before they were even citizens. Before the ink on the 14th Amendment, before the word freedom stopped needing quotation marks. Henrietta stood on that battlefield of paperwork and principle and made the country do what the statue in the bay only claimed to represent.

She settled her own score nearly a century before the nation even realized the debt existed.

That’s why I study history. That’s why I never found it boring. Because every century, every headline, every name carved into stone is part of the same damn argument about who gets to be human and who gets to send the bill.

Henrietta Wood didn’t just win money—she won meaning. She took the same law they fought and bled for before they were even citizens, and she made it do what the statue in the bay only pretends to: stand for liberty, not theater. She didn’t ask for mercy. She demanded math.

And that’s what history really is—math written in blood and ink. Every generation adds up what the last one promised, and we’re still carrying the remainder.

So when people tell me, “History’s over,” I just laugh. The score’s not settled. Somewhere between 1868 and now—between Henrietta’s courthouse and that statue still holding her torch over borrowed water—the light keeps flickering like a warning.

What did Led Zeppelin say? “The Song Remains the Same.”

That’s the jam. Every damn time.

Author’s Note

I love history. So much that I’m building an entire website for it—and for everything else that refuses to be forgotten.

 We make history in every breath we take. Every choice, every fight, every story that doesn’t get told.

How in the hell can that ever be boring?