The Aftermath of Slavery and America’s Unpreparedness for Freedom
When the Emancipation Proclamation was signed on January 1, 1863, followed by the ratification of the 13th Amendment in 1865, slavery officially ended in the United States. For nearly 250 years, enslaved Africans had endured unimaginable brutality—forced labor, family separations, physical violence, and systemic dehumanization—all under the guise of economic prosperity for white America. Yet, when freedom finally arrived, it revealed something that many within the white establishment had not anticipated: the survival of Black people.
The title of this article, “We Weren’t Supposed to Be Here,” captures a profound truth about post-slavery America—a nation unprepared for the resilience and continued presence of formerly enslaved individuals. While abolitionists celebrated the moral victory of ending slavery, those who benefited from it were left grappling with an uncomfortable reality: what to do with millions of newly freed Black Americans? Their existence as free people challenged every assumption upon which the institution of slavery had been built.
To understand why the survival of enslaved Africans confounded so many, one must first recognize how deeply entrenched anti-Blackness was in the fabric of American society. Enslaved Africans were treated as property rather than human beings. They were stripped of their names, languages, religions, and cultures. Families were torn apart at auction blocks, children sold away from parents, husbands separated from wives. The system was designed not only to exploit but also to annihilate identity, dignity, and hope.
Yet, despite these horrors, enslaved people resisted. They preserved fragments of their heritage through song, oral traditions, and covert acts of rebellion. They formed communities despite oppression, finding ways to love, laugh, and dream of freedom. This resilience should have come as no surprise; humanity has always found ways to endure the most oppressive conditions. But to the architects of slavery, whose worldview rested on the belief in Black inferiority and expendability, the persistence of African-descended people posed an existential crisis.
In the immediate aftermath of the Civil War, there was some acknowledgment that reparations were necessary to address the injustices of slavery. General William Tecumseh Sherman’s Special Field Order No. 15 promised 40 acres of land to formerly enslaved families along the southeastern coast. This proposal, coupled with the distribution of mules abandoned by the army, symbolized a fleeting moment of accountability. It suggested that perhaps, just perhaps, America might begin to repair the damage done over centuries.
But like so much else during Reconstruction, this promise quickly evaporated. President Andrew Johnson overturned Sherman’s order, returning confiscated lands to former Confederate owners. Instead of redistributing wealth or resources, the federal government largely abandoned its responsibility to integrate formerly enslaved people into society as equal citizens. Without access to land, education, or economic opportunities, millions of Black Americans were thrust into a new form of exploitation: sharecropping, tenant farming, and convict leasing systems that perpetuated cycles of poverty and disenfranchisement.
This betrayal underscored a deeper sentiment among the white establishment: they simply hadn’t planned for Black survival. If they had, surely they would have invested more thought into transitioning four million people from bondage to freedom. Surely, they would have recognized the need for comprehensive support systems—education, healthcare, housing, and job training—to ensure that emancipation meant more than just the absence of chains. As Reconstruction faltered and federal troops withdrew from the South, the Ku Klux Klan and other white supremacist groups emerged with renewed fervor. Violence, intimidation, and voter suppression became tools to reassert dominance over Black communities. By the late 19th century, Jim Crow laws institutionalized segregation, effectively creating two separate Americas—one for whites and another for Blacks.
These laws weren’t merely about maintaining racial separation; they were about reinforcing the idea that Black people were inherently lesser, undeserving of full citizenship. Lynching became a grotesque spectacle, serving as both punishment and warning to anyone who dared challenge the status quo. The message was clear: “You may be free on paper, but you will never truly belong here.” And yet, Black Americans persisted. They built schools, churches, businesses, and mutual aid societies. They created art, literature, and music that spoke to their struggles and triumphs. They fought for voting rights, civil rights, and equality under the law. Every step forward was met with resistance, yet they refused to disappear.
The phrase “we weren’t supposed to be here” echoes across generations because it reflects a fundamental truth about race relations in America. From the moment enslaved Africans stepped onto colonial soil, their very existence was seen as a problem to be managed, controlled, or erased. Even after emancipation, efforts to marginalize, exclude, and oppress continued unabated. Today, we see remnants of this legacy in disparities in wealth, education, housing, healthcare, and criminal justice. Redlining, mass incarceration, voter ID laws, and environmental racism are modern manifestations of policies rooted in the same logic: keeping Black people subordinate and contained. And still, we persist.
“We weren’t supposed to be here”—and yet, here we are. Despite centuries of attempts to erase us, Black Americans continue to thrive, innovate, and lead. Our ancestors survived the Middle Passage, chattel slavery, Reconstruction, Jim Crow, and countless other indignities. We carry their strength, wisdom, and determination with us today. Recognizing this history is crucial—not only to honor those who came before us but also to hold America accountable for its failures. Acknowledging that the end of slavery did not bring true freedom is the first step toward building a future where equity and justice are realities for all. So, while the white establishment may not have known what to do with us in 1865, we know exactly what to do now: demand recognition, reparations, and respect. Because we are here—and we’re not going anywhere.