My elementary school was a tiny all-black Christian school situated in South Central Los Angeles. My parents, who had gone to Compton public schools, had decided that my younger sister and I wouldn't have the same experience. We would go to private school, and hopefully get a better education and therefore go farther in life than they did.

They were not unique in this hope; the school was filled with black kids with parents or grandparents that wanted the exact same thing for their kids. To multiply the situation, our teachers also wanted the same thing for us. The staff, made up of mostly black women (with the occasional black man), had almost all been of ample consciousness during the Civil Rights Movement. They saw the hope, the pride, and felt the pain of the movement, and this would define how they taught us as students.

I grew up learning more about Black history than I did general American history. To this day I still remember every word of the Black National Anthem, and every time Martin Luther King Jr. Day comes around, I'm reminded of the annual program that takes place. Every single 2nd grader learns the “I Have A Dream” speech in part by heart, and one lucky child (which during my time was me and later on was my sister) has the chance to recite the final part, the “I have a dream that all God's children, black men, and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics...” section that ends with charismatically pronouncing “Thank God Almighty I am free at last.”

I understand now, in a country that incorrectly thinks that it is post-racial, that I am immensely lucky to have gone to a school like this. But I would be lying if I said that I always appreciated it. Along with the positives, and the push for excellence, my school also didn't hide the ugly reality of black people who dared stand up to the system. As a second grader, I watched videos in class of black people who were peacefully marching get sprayed with water hoses and attacked by dogs. I learned about the bombing of the church in Birmingham where four little girls not much older than me died. I saw footage of the Klan, saw the burning crosses, and learned of the assassination attempts against MLK. As a result, I simultaneously grew up knowing that I could be anything I wanted to be, and also terribly afraid of anything having to do with civil rights.

Knowing the history of black people in America successfully made me understand that anyone saying that Black people couldn't succeed was a liar. My education went past MLK and George Washington Carver. It included female pilots, heart surgeons, poets, travellers, singers, entrepreneurs, and more. This is what happens when young people learn their history; they understand what their people are capable of, what they themselves are capable of. This is in part why white people have such confidence that they are the most powerful, and can do as they wish; by default, they learn their own history their entire lives. More often than not, what they learn of minorities is struggle. Of course, I learned struggle as well, but it was tempered and often overshadowed with stories of success.

Unfortunately, even with that said, I didn't fully embrace myself right away. I still walked off campus and saw myself surrounded by whiteness, saw myself surrounded by people whose lives seemed easy. No one had turned water hoses on them. They didn't have to fight like the people before me had to. I knew too, even so young, that things were not equal, and I feared that we'd end up in the same place again. So, I blocked it out. Not blocking it out would cause me to lay in bed panicking all the way through high school. I couldn't even say KKK - hell, even now typing it I shudder, though not nearly as bad as I used to. As a result, I never saw myself as capable of fighting because the idea just made me too nervous.

I think this is a testament to the idea that with age comes understanding, really.  In the past five years, I have steadily overcome my fears and am finally able to truly appreciate what I learned and saw in elementary school. I also finally understand that it's okay to be afraid, even a benefit at times because you know what's at stake.

We are in a time now where, as said above, many people believe that we are post-racial. What this means is that the fight is on an intellectual level, and harder now than ever. Racism is inherently institutional, laced in the US dedication to globalization, the growth of gentrification, higher tuition rates and student loan interest rates, and wrapped up in prettily worded laws that sound good but are actually shit (cough-hack charter schools). We also still have riots but the government and police black out the worst of it, instead of allowing it to be recorded. The FBI still frames people and seems to turn a blind eye to the real damage. Policemen are even better off, often getting paid suspension for killing black people.

A lot of this terrifies me, makes me sad, makes me cry. But my tears are not a hindrance to me anymore. I already went through the worst of my fears. I've gotten over the panic. Now, my fears and my tears  turn into anger, and an understanding that real radical societal change is necessary if we're ever going to truly be “free at last.” I am also able to understand now that there are many different ways to fight. It can be done in the system, outside the system, through media, through protests, through riots, or even by proving assholes wrong that say you can't be unapologetically black and succeed at life - then turning around and helping the next black person. We need each other; all our hands need to be in to ensure that we can re-collect ourselves, grow our communities, and ensure that we can truly fend for ourselves.

This Black History Month and beyond, I am going to continue to embrace the fear I felt as a child, along with newfound fears that I carry around today. Instead of treating the fear of being a black queer person in America with avoidance, I am going to continue to use it as a catalyst to push me towards doing what I can to ensure that no young black person ever has to be afraid to live in their skin, or feel alienated. As descendants of the people that built this country's economy with our bare hands, we deserve this, and we, along with all minorities (who have also built this country) will one day have it. One day, we will be free at last.