Let’s talk about the people we keep making plates for.
Every summer, someone shows up to the family cookout who shouldn’t be there. I’m not talking about a distant cousin bringing runny mac & cheese. I’m talking about the ones who carry silence and shame like seasoning in their back pockets—the ones who should’ve been cut off generations ago but somehow still get handed a to-go plate and a seat at the spades table.
In our communities, we talk a lot about family, about sticking together, about “what happens in this house stays in this house.” We guard that house like Fort Knox, even when some of the folks inside it are dangerous, deadbeat or downright demonic. We say things like “that’s just how he is” or “God’ll deal with her,” all while someone’s child is crying in the bathroom or someone’s grown-ass trauma is triggered just by showing up.
Why is it that we’ll turn our backs on the queer cousin, the trans niece or the gender-nonconforming nephew—children who only ever asked to be seen, loved and called by the name they chose—but we’ll break our necks to keep space for the uncle who molested half the family? Why does the auntie who beats her kids into silence still get a standing ovation for her collard greens? Why is there a seat at the table for the person who hasn’t paid child support since Cash Money Records took over for the 99 & 2000s?
Our cookouts have become sanctuaries for the wrong people. We’ve weaponized “family” to protect abusers and ostracize those who need the most love. And it’s killing us.
That same family member y’all keep inviting back “because they’re blood” is the reason your sister doesn’t bring her kids around anymore. That cousin who was “just a little handsy back in the day” made it unsafe for a whole branch of the family tree to ever trust again. And the man you all laugh with between swigs of Hennessy and ribs? He hasn’t seen his daughter in five years—and not because of court orders, but because he simply stopped showing up.
And still, he gets a damn plate.
There’s a hypocrisy in how we assign worthiness in our community. We rally behind the broken and the beaters, but not the bold. You can be a repeat offender of violence, neglect, or sexual misconduct, and still be seen as “family”—but if your grandchild is gay? Suddenly, you’re praying the rainbow away like it’s a spirit you can fast out of them. That same Bible you use to shame queer kids? You skip past the parts about protecting the vulnerable and calling out injustice in your own house.
This isn’t about perfection. It’s about accountability.
Protecting the community means protecting everyone in it—not just the ones you like, not just the ones who make you comfortable. We need to stop offering forgiveness to the unrepentant and sanctuary to the unsafe. And we need to stop shaming those who walk away from toxic family systems just because “that’s your blood.” Blood doesn’t mean bond. And trauma shouldn’t be a tradition.
Studies show that 80 to 90 percent of children who experience sexual abuse are harmed by someone they know—and too often, it’s a family member. That kind of betrayal leaves deeper, longer-lasting scars, especially when it comes from the people who were supposed to love and protect you. But within Black families, studies also reveal that racial pride and emotional connectedness can act as a protective shield, softening the blow of trauma and giving our kids something to hold on to. The call may be coming from inside the house—but so is the healing, if we’re willing to choose protection over silence.
The next time you plan the cookout, ask yourself: who are you really inviting? And more importantly—who had to stay home just so they wouldn’t have to sit across from their abuser? Who had to heal in silence while the rest of the family danced around their pain like it was the “Cha Cha Slide?”
It’s 2025, and the cookout guest list is getting tighter. Deadbeats, predators and abusers—your invitation is being revoked. From now on, we’re making space for healing, chosen family and generational change. Not generational curses in linen shorts and sandals.
We deserve better. And so do the children who stopped showing up.
We’re not protecting predators with potato salad anymore. The cookout is closed to y’all. Forever.
About the Author: Victor Qunnuell Vaughns Jr. (@vqvaughns) is EBONY’s Fashion + Beauty Editor, spotlighting Black style, beauty, grooming and culture. Find contributions stories here.