By Rev. Stacy Swimp
For many, New Year’s Eve is a night of sparkling lights and resolutions. But for the Black community, the ticking clock has a deeper echo. To understand why we gather in churches on Dec. 31, we must look beyond the party and confront a journey of profound survival. We must remember the night the watch changed from “Heartbreak Day” to “Freedom’s Eve.”
The ledger of agony: “Heartbreak Day”
In the years before the Civil War, Jan. 1 was not a day of “new beginnings,” it was a day of business known as “Hiring Day” or “Heartbreak Day.” In the cruel economy of the South, the first day of the year was the deadline for debt; the day slave owners balanced their books.
Enslaved people were legally treated as property used to satisfy these debts, Joshua Rothman wrote in his book, “The Ledger and the Chain.” Harriet Jacobs (1861) lived through this terror. She wrote that for the enslaved, New Year’s Eve was a night of “silent agony.” While the world celebrated, mothers held their children, knowing that by sunrise, a father might be “hired out” to a distant county or a child sold to settle a creditor’s account. To Jacobs, Jan. 1 was the day the “poor slave is oftenest separated from his family.”
The sovereign vigil: “Freedom’s Eve”
The transformation of this night happened on Dec. 31, 1862. This was the night the “Watch” was reclaimed. Our people stopped looking at the owner’s ledger and started looking at the clock. As the nation waited for the Emancipation Proclamation to become law, thousands gathered in secret “hush harbors”—clandestine spaces in the woods or swamps where they could pray without the overseer’s interference. This was “Freedom’s Eve.”
They were “watching” for the exact moment the law would finally say they were no longer “property,” but “people.” It was an exercise in collective faith and endurance. When the clock struck midnight, the “Heartbreak Day” of 1863 became the first day of a new world, signaling a transition from legal chattel to recognized humanity.
Reclaiming the Nnam
I choose to call these ancestors the “Nnam.” Through my own journey of discovery, I learned that I am a descendant of the Igbo people of Nigeria. In the Igbo language, Nnam means “my father” or “the patriarch.” For too long, the American slave system tried to erase our specific origins, stripping us of our names and titles. By using this word, I am reclaiming a piece of what was stolen.
These patriarchs navigated the darkest nights of our history with unshakeable discipline. They did not just “wait” for freedom; they prepared for it with spiritual fortitude. They kept the family together and the spirit strong even when the world tried to break them. They understood that the struggle for liberation requires total focus and a refusal to be distracted by the temporal circumstances of their bondage.
The call: A night of honor
This year, I encourage you to gather for Watch Night as a sovereign act of remembrance. When we gather, we stand in the gap for the families torn apart on “Heartbreak Day.” We honor the Nnam by refusing to let their struggle be forgotten. Let us “watch out” the old year with the same discipline they held, and “watch in” a new year of excellence, proving that the ledger that once tried to own us has been closed forever.
The opinions expressed in this commentary are those of the writer and not necessarily those of the AFRO.