Why I Can’t Watch Black Hallmark Movies
by Nwanne Onwuzu
I love Hallmark holiday movies. They make me feel warm and safe with bits of mild excitement. This is a far cry from what I used to watch in my teen years, when my friends and I would binge Lifetime marathons full of dramatic plots and domestic disturbance. I joke that I've lived a past life of actual Lifetime plots, and I don't have the nervous system for them anymore. Instead, I like to watch wealthy people, who may have gotten a little out of touch, go back to their country town, save the Christmas play and marry a lumberjack who lives in a multimillion dollar home for no reason.
So, when my daughter said, "Mom! They have a lot of Black Hallmark movies out this year!"
My disappointed response, a muted "Wow. That's great," completely surprised me. Like floored me. I had to go do some inner work. I asked myself during my morning meditation, "Why do I not want to watch Black people in Hallmark movies? I love my people, I love Hallmark holiday movies, what's the disconnect?" The answer I came up with wasn't pleasant – but it was the truth.
"Because you can't see yourself as deserving to be happy, safe and whole - yet. And when you see Black people in those situations you see yourself."
The realization hit me like a ton of perfectly wrapped Christmas presents. I'd spent years building my life around safety, creating boundaries, choosing peace - but somewhere deep down, I still saw those things as temporary visitors rather than permanent residents in my life.
When I watch white Hallmark movies, there's a comfortable distance. I can enjoy the fantasy of small towns where the biggest crisis is a canceled winter festival, where everyone has time to bake cookies and decorate town squares. I can laugh at the predictable plots because they feel like pleasant fiction.
But throw Black folks into that mix? Now it's personal. Now I have to confront why seeing people who look like me living in uncomplicated joy feels unrealistic. Why watching a Black woman whose biggest problem is choosing between the charming cafe owner and the dashing business executive makes me uncomfortable. Why the sight of Black families in sweater sets, drinking hot cocoa by a fire, feels like a fairytale instead of a possibility.
The thing about generational trauma is that it doesn't just show up in the big moments. It's not always about the obvious scars or clear triggers. Sometimes it sneaks up on you while you're scrolling through Netflix, trying to pick a holiday movie. Sometimes it reveals itself in the quiet resistance to seeing your own people exist in spaces of pure peace.
My daughter, bless her heart, keeps trying to get me to watch these movies with her. And maybe I will. Maybe I'll sit down with her and let myself imagine a world where Black joy isn't revolutionary but routine. Where our happy endings don't require exceptional resilience or extraordinary circumstances. Where we can just be - in love, in peace, in ridiculous holiday-themed sweaters.
But for now, I'm sitting with this truth. Not to wallow in it, but to understand it. Because maybe recognizing that I struggle to see myself deserving simple happiness is the first step toward claiming it. Maybe admitting that I've internalized so much trauma that even fictional Black joy feels unrealistic is how I start to rewrite that story.
In the meantime, I'll keep watching my white Hallmark movies, with their improbable lumberjacks and their small towns full of Christmas magic. But I'm working on the day when seeing my own people in those spaces feels less like fantasy and more like a reflection of what we all deserve - pure, uncomplicated, cheesy holiday joy.
And who knows? Maybe by next Christmas, I'll be ready for that Black woman CEO to move back to her hometown and fall in love with the owner of the struggling Christmas tree farm. Maybe I'll even believe she deserves every minute of it. Just like I do.
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