As a young African American girl growing up in a rural, southern town, I thought life was great! From dangling from my grandmother’s apron as she hung freshly washed clothes to dry in the warm summer’s sun, to buying penny candy at the local general store, to playing hopscotch with my siblings and neighborhood friends, to riding in the back of Mr. Calvin Edward’s pickup truck to and from Sunday School, I believed I was living the good life. During Black History Month in my local church, we were encouraged to give speeches and to dress up as historical African American men and women who had integral roles in moving the African American race forward. I believed this to be a tradition that all cultures practiced. At such a young age, I did not understand the significance of why we celebrated Black History Month.