I walked out of Black Panther feeling the power of the ancestors pulsating through my veins. It was a reminder of our resiliency, our greatness, our POWER.

However, I couldn't help but feel the pang of sadness, when the narratives got too close to my own reality, as a black woman, as an American. The feeling that we don't belong, and are not wanted. The longing for a home untouched by oppressors.

It happened when we first got into the car, my 8-year-old, still hyped from the film, asked in amazement, "is that place real?" And I didn't want to break her heart, because mine had already been broken a couple years prior.

I remember what it felt like to be on government assistance, walking in bleak offices with raggedy chairs. The faces staring up at me, sometimes from behind plex-glass, weren't always friendly.

"Next," a woman would yell from behind the glass. I had a name, but did it really matter? Just another black girl using the system. Those workers always looked tired, their attitude reflected that. Conversations short. They wanted my info. They wanted to be done.