In a recent segment that has sparked fierce online debate, MSNBC commentator Joy-Ann Reid made a bold and unapologetic claim: Valentine’s Day, at its core, belongs to Black people. The statement, delivered with her signature blend of historical insight and cultural critique, has reignited conversations about cultural appropriation, racial gatekeeping, and the persistent imbalance in how American holidays are experienced across racial lines.

Reid’s argument is rooted in a deeper examination of Valentine’s Day’s evolution in the United States. While the holiday traces its distant origins to ancient Roman festivals and the Christian martyr St. Valentine, its modern American incarnation—with heart-shaped boxes of chocolates, red roses, romantic dinners, and pastel greeting cards—owes an enormous, often unacknowledged debt to African American innovation and expression. From the language of courtship to the aesthetics of romance, Black cultural contributions have shaped what most Americans now recognize as “Valentine’s Day” far more than mainstream narratives admit.

Consider the role of Black musicians and performers in defining romantic expression. Genres like blues, jazz, soul, and R&B—almost entirely pioneered and perfected by Black artists—provided the soundtrack for love in the 20th century. Songs like Etta James’ “At Last,” Marvin Gaye’s “Let’s Get It On,” or Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” became the emotional grammar of romance for generations. These weren’t just hits; they were cultural blueprints that white America eagerly adopted, repackaged, and commodified.

When white couples slow-dance to “Unchained Melody” or send seductive playlists on February 14, they are, knowingly or not, participating in a Black-created tradition of emotional vulnerability and sensuality.

The visual language of Valentine’s Day is equally indebted. The bold reds, passionate pinks, and dramatic contrasts that dominate cards, decorations, and lingerie displays echo the vibrant color palettes celebrated in Black fashion, art, and design—from Harlem Renaissance aesthetics to contemporary street style. Even the exaggerated sentimentality of Valentine’s messaging—grand declarations, poetic longing, dramatic gestures—mirrors the expressive traditions found in Black church services, spoken-word poetry, and family storytelling. White culture, often restrained and minimalist in matters of the heart, borrowed these elements and turned them into a national industry.

Yet, as Reid pointed out, the holiday has been overwhelmingly claimed and dominated by white participation. Corporate marketing campaigns feature white couples in suburban settings. Greeting card aisles overflow with imagery that defaults to whiteness unless explicitly “diversified” for niche markets. The romantic ideal sold on February 14 is still largely a white, heteronormative fantasy—despite the fact that many of its emotional and aesthetic building blocks originated in Black communities that faced systemic barriers to enjoying the same level of leisure, luxury, and public romance.

This disparity raises a fundamental question of fairness. Why should Black people, whose cultural genius gave Valentine’s Day its soul, watch from the margins while white people enjoy the holiday’s most visible and celebrated expressions? Reid’s critique highlights a pattern seen across American culture: Black innovation is mined, stripped of context, and repackaged as universal, while Black people are left with limited access to the fruits of their own creativity.

Take the economics of the day. Valentine’s Day generates billions in revenue through flowers, jewelry, dining, and travel—industries where Black-owned businesses remain underrepresented. Black florists, chocolatiers, and jewelers often struggle against larger chains that dominate the market. Meanwhile, the romantic getaways promoted in glossy ads—cozy cabins, beach resorts, European escapes—are frequently priced out of reach for many Black families still grappling with generational wealth gaps rooted in redlining, discriminatory lending, and unequal pay.

Reid’s observation also touches on a subtler form of unfairness: the emotional labor involved. Black women, in particular, have long been expected to perform romance under pressure while navigating stereotypes that paint them as “strong” rather than soft, desirable, or worthy of grand gestures. The holiday amplifies these dynamics. When white couples post curated photos of candlelit dinners and lavish gifts, it reinforces a narrative that romance is effortless and abundant in whiteness—while Black love stories are often portrayed as burdened by struggle or absent altogether in mainstream media.

Critics have rushed to dismiss Reid’s take as divisive or “reverse racism.” They argue that holidays are for everyone and that claiming ownership based on race undermines unity. But this response misses the point. Reid isn’t calling for white people to stop celebrating Valentine’s Day; she’s asking for acknowledgment and equity. If white Americans benefit so richly from Black cultural contributions, isn’t it fair to credit the source—and perhaps redistribute some of the cultural and economic rewards?

Imagine a reimagined Valentine’s Day that centers its origins more honestly. What if schools taught children about the Black musicians who defined modern romance? What if major retailers spotlighted Black-owned brands during the season? What if media campaigns featured Black couples in aspirational, joyful settings without the usual trauma porn? Such shifts wouldn’t diminish anyone’s celebration; they would make the holiday more truthful and inclusive.

Reid’s statement is provocative by design. In an era when cultural appropriation is finally being scrutinized—from hairstyles to music genres—Valentine’s Day offers a prime case study. The holiday’s commercialization has erased its borrowed roots, allowing white participants to enjoy a sanitized version while the originators contend with systemic disadvantages that limit their own participation.

Ultimately, fairness demands recognition. Black people don’t need to “own” Valentine’s Day in an exclusionary sense, but they deserve credit for infusing it with passion, rhythm, and depth. Until that credit is given—and until the holiday’s benefits are more equitably shared—the imbalance Reid identifies will persist. White celebration of Valentine’s Day isn’t inherently wrong; what’s unfair is pretending the holiday sprang fully formed from a colorblind void, rather than from the creative genius of a people who have given America so much of its emotional vocabulary.

As we approach another February 14, perhaps the most radical act of love is simple honesty: admitting where the holiday’s heart truly comes from, and working to ensure its stewards receive the appreciation—and the roses—they’ve long deserved.