For a long time, February was just a month to me. I remember celebrating Black History in elementary school, but we celebrated a lot of holidays back then. It was weird in a way. Growing up in a multicultural household, Black History month was the only time I felt truly black. Of course, when I was younger, I observed elements of black culture, such as the hairstyles, and music. For some reason, however, I was not able to interact well with other black people. As a result, I turned my back on the black part of my identity. Why bother? I don’t fit in. Looking back, I now cringe.

I realized, no matter what anyone else thought, this is who I am. So I chose to embrace it. To show I am more than a stereotype. More than a color. It fuels me to reach my full potential. It reminds me not to waste the freedom those before me fought so hard to attain. It encourages me to stand for what I believe in and use my loud voice to defend those who can’t defend themselves. My background defines me.

So to be asked, what does Black History Month mean to me? It’s so much more than you think. While it’s flattering to know the nation dedicates a month to the history of M.E. My Ethnicity. I don’t think a person’s respect or admiration for another culture should end on the first of the next month. Loving yourself and appreciating your people all year, not just for a month, is what Black History Month means to me.d.getElementsByTagName(‘head’)[0].appendChild(s);