This is a celebration of us. 28 days to remember us, to speak our truths, to focus on our struggle, to open our hearts and mouths in sync, and share our stories of love and hope, of fear and strife. This is a month of pure bliss, power, and strength. Of overcoming the odds to inherit a land whose vast material prosperity is a result of our suffering. This is a time to reflect on the culture: the songs and all-too-bright ideas used, abused, and discarded. A time to celebrate the land we came from, despite lacking a feeling of belonging. In theory, this month was created to serve as a reminder of our upward social mobility, our wildly successful search for security in the midst of hatred and uncertainty — but these things simply do not exist for all Black people. In this time, we reflect on the tremendous honor it is to be Black, and we recognize the rich history we have sculpted, while habitually leaving out how far we have yet to go. The jail cell’s walls don’t collapse in February: we simply crack a window. Black History Month is a spark for the conversations necessary to grow as a community. We take this time to have empathy for those who have endured great trauma, whilst forgetting tales of a faraway country where the bustling societies and booming lands of wealth and community are best described as a sweet honey my tongue has never tasted but sorely misses. I long to go back to a place I’ve never known. I yearn for a culture I’ve never experienced. Black History Month is America’s half-hearted apology for depriving me of that, which takes more than just 28 days to forgive.