The days are getting longer, the heat is turning up, schools are letting out, and Memorial Day has passed which can only mean one thing: summer is here. And in the Black community, that means one thing above all else—cookout season.
Nearly everyone loves a good cookout—it’s practically a universal language, but there’s something undeniably special about the Black cookout. It’s more than just grilled meat and good music. It’s the shit talking at the spades table, kids running and laughing, those shady cousins you only see once a year congregating with uncles sipping from red cups, while churchgoing aunties patrol the food table. And of course, someone is always asking, “Who made the potato salad?” It’s a vibe, a ritual, a living piece of our cultural legacy.
As Shannon Dawson noted in her article “We Outside!: A Brief History of The Black People Cookouts”:
“In preparation for the cookout, enslaved people were often tasked with all the hard work to keep the fire going—digging trenches, monitoring coals, chopping wood, and cooking the meat. Historians believe this is why the American pastime is so deeply rooted in Black culture today.”
From slavery to segregation to now, the Black cookout has remained a vital space of freedom, celebration, and resistance. It’s such a cultural touchstone that it’s made its way into popular language. These days, when a non-Black person shows rhythm, drops some bars, or nails a dance move, some Black folks like to say that those individuals are “invited to the cookout.” It’s a kind of symbolic acceptance—a cultural nod of approval.
But here’s the thing: not everyone deserves an invitation.
Cookouts, historically, weren’t just about fun, they were necessary. Excluded from white spaces, Black Americans made the outdoors our refuge, a place to gather safely and freely. The cookout became a sacred space, a few hours to just be. No code-switching. No masks. Just music, laughter, joy, and freedom.
That’s why the casual use of “invited to the cookout” to describe anyone who can mimic our style feels off. Not everyone who imitates Black culture is a friend or ally. Some are simply using it for clout. We know them well—culture vultures. People who love the aesthetics of Blackness but want no part of its pain, history, or struggle. Folks who want our rhythm but not our blues.
Take, for instance, the “Lady in the Bathroom,” a TikTok creator who gained popularity dancing to hip-hop tracks. She built a platform on the back of Black culture—only to later reveal herself as a Trump supporter. A man who has disrespected Black communities, history, and movements at every turn. That’s not allyship that’s exploitation.
Or consider a recent moment online when someone praised a white police officer rapping in his car, saying he was “invited to the cookout.” I asked a simple question: “Who did he vote for?” The backlash was immediate. I was told cookouts aren't political (clearly by folks who’ve never been to a real Black cookout). One commenter even claimed that I was disinvited to the cookout because I questioned the intentions of the officer.
We must be better gatekeepers of our culture.
Look at what happened when Beyoncé dropped a country album—a genre Black musicians created. She was met with resistance and told she wasn’t “country enough.” Even Shaboozey, whose music is steeped in country roots was overlooked at the Country Music Awards despite chart-topping success. They kept us out of a space we helped build.
Meanwhile, we keep letting folks in. Black people are among the most welcoming, forgiving communities in America, likely because we know the pain of exclusion so deeply. But that openness has made our culture vulnerable to exploitation. People profit off our slang, our style, our sound—while refusing to acknowledge our contributions or stand with us in our struggles. Even some of our own have sold out, weaponizing or commercializing Black culture to make a dime.
I’m not saying we should deny others the chance to appreciate or enjoy our culture. What I’m saying is we need to be more discerning about who we welcome in—and why.
Because the cookout is more than just a vibe. It’s our sanctuary. It’s where we pass down stories, build community, and express our full selves without apology. So no, not everyone gets a plate. Not everyone belongs at the table. Especially not those who put raisins in their potato salad—and certainly not those who exploit our culture while disrespecting our people.
Let’s protect the cookout. Let’s protect us.
Nearly everyone loves a good cookout—it’s practically a universal language, but there’s something undeniably special about the Black cookout. It’s more than just grilled meat and good music. It’s the shit talking at the spades table, kids running and laughing, those shady cousins you only see once a year congregating with uncles sipping from red cups, while churchgoing aunties patrol the food table. And of course, someone is always asking, “Who made the potato salad?” It’s a vibe, a ritual, a living piece of our cultural legacy.
As Shannon Dawson noted in her article “We Outside!: A Brief History of The Black People Cookouts”:
“In preparation for the cookout, enslaved people were often tasked with all the hard work to keep the fire going—digging trenches, monitoring coals, chopping wood, and cooking the meat. Historians believe this is why the American pastime is so deeply rooted in Black culture today.”
From slavery to segregation to now, the Black cookout has remained a vital space of freedom, celebration, and resistance. It’s such a cultural touchstone that it’s made its way into popular language. These days, when a non-Black person shows rhythm, drops some bars, or nails a dance move, some Black folks like to say that those individuals are “invited to the cookout.” It’s a kind of symbolic acceptance—a cultural nod of approval.
But here’s the thing: not everyone deserves an invitation.
Cookouts, historically, weren’t just about fun, they were necessary. Excluded from white spaces, Black Americans made the outdoors our refuge, a place to gather safely and freely. The cookout became a sacred space, a few hours to just be. No code-switching. No masks. Just music, laughter, joy, and freedom.
That’s why the casual use of “invited to the cookout” to describe anyone who can mimic our style feels off. Not everyone who imitates Black culture is a friend or ally. Some are simply using it for clout. We know them well—culture vultures. People who love the aesthetics of Blackness but want no part of its pain, history, or struggle. Folks who want our rhythm but not our blues.
Take, for instance, the “Lady in the Bathroom,” a TikTok creator who gained popularity dancing to hip-hop tracks. She built a platform on the back of Black culture—only to later reveal herself as a Trump supporter. A man who has disrespected Black communities, history, and movements at every turn. That’s not allyship that’s exploitation.
Or consider a recent moment online when someone praised a white police officer rapping in his car, saying he was “invited to the cookout.” I asked a simple question: “Who did he vote for?” The backlash was immediate. I was told cookouts aren't political (clearly by folks who’ve never been to a real Black cookout). One commenter even claimed that I was disinvited to the cookout because I questioned the intentions of the officer.
We must be better gatekeepers of our culture.
Look at what happened when Beyoncé dropped a country album—a genre Black musicians created. She was met with resistance and told she wasn’t “country enough.” Even Shaboozey, whose music is steeped in country roots was overlooked at the Country Music Awards despite chart-topping success. They kept us out of a space we helped build.
Meanwhile, we keep letting folks in. Black people are among the most welcoming, forgiving communities in America, likely because we know the pain of exclusion so deeply. But that openness has made our culture vulnerable to exploitation. People profit off our slang, our style, our sound—while refusing to acknowledge our contributions or stand with us in our struggles. Even some of our own have sold out, weaponizing or commercializing Black culture to make a dime.
I’m not saying we should deny others the chance to appreciate or enjoy our culture. What I’m saying is we need to be more discerning about who we welcome in—and why.
Because the cookout is more than just a vibe. It’s our sanctuary. It’s where we pass down stories, build community, and express our full selves without apology. So no, not everyone gets a plate. Not everyone belongs at the table. Especially not those who put raisins in their potato salad—and certainly not those who exploit our culture while disrespecting our people.
Let’s protect the cookout. Let’s protect us.
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