These days, they celebrate films like Get Out like it’s groundbreaking, but Jordan Peele didn’t invent the message, he just sharpened it. He pulled the mask off what we've been saying for decades: that even smiles can strangle, that horror can wear polo shirts and liberal praise. Then they hand out awards for other films like The Help and call it empathy as if finally understanding the pain of black maids in the Jim Crow south counts as progress. But we know better. We’ve seen this story before, just dressed in softer lighting, wearing the Mammy’s apron.

And still, we push. Black Panther gave the black community a rare sense of power and pride on screen. Yes, it had flaws, the so-called "good guy" hoarded technology behind royal bloodlines, while the “villain” just wanted to liberate oppressed people. But it was still a bold step forward and an effort to reimagine what black liberation could look like in film.

Yet Hollywood still acts like our success is a surprise. But we’ve earned every frame, every scene, every line. Grandma’s voice is in this journal, and so is mine. We’ve come a long way from pleading to end blackface to calling out tokenism at the Oscars. Every film is a step. Every generation pushes a little harder. And the story isn’t done. We’re still writing it.

The whole room buzzed with tension before the first frame even lit up. And Spike did not disappoint. He didn’t make us saints or villains, instead he showed us as we are: laughing, sweating, loving, arguing, hurting.

In the movie, one hot Brooklyn day boils over when a young black man is murdered by police. The rage that explodes isn’t neat or polite, it’s fire in a trash can, a brick through a window. Some folks said the film would cause riots, but all it really did was show the riot that had already been burning in our chests.

Grandma wrote about Sidney Poitier having to be perfect to be accepted. But now I can say that Spike gave us permission to be angry, messy, and loud, yet still worthy of being seen. Unfortunately, the world hasn't caught up to that yet.

Then Shaft hit the theaters. Cool leather coat, deep voice, walking like he owned every street he stepped on. A private eye who didn’t answer to anyone. For the first time, black folks in Atlanta left the theater with our heads high, not bowed, not disappointed. We’d seen enough Sidney Poitier who was clean, light-skinned, perfect. But these men? They had fire in their eyes.

The theaters were packed with brothers and sisters cheering, whistling, clapping. It wasn’t about whether the story was perfect, it was about seeing us with power. Still, some folks worried. Some of those movies were funded by the same white studios that wouldn’t give us the time of day a few years ago, and that wasn’t a great thing. The NAACP also was not fond of the fact that new negative stereotypes were being placed on us, but for me, that night, I didn’t care. Sweetback didn’t die and Shaft didn’t bow. 

And then came The Spook Who Sat by the Door. Now that movie? That one didn’t just entertain, it stirred the soul. It was sharp, deliberate, and political. A black man infiltrates the CIA, learns their tactics, and then uses their own tools to train young revolutionaries in Chicago. It wasn’t about hustling or surviving, it was about fighting back with strategy and purpose. I couldn’t believe how bold it was. Ivan Dixon directed it masterfully, as it was quiet, brilliant, and dangerous in the best way. They yanked it out of theaters almost as soon as it arrived. Called it dangerous and provocative. They were right. I loved every second of it.

Maybe the stories were rough, full of hustlers, fighters, and fast talk, but it didn’t matter, because for the first time, we were standing tall on that screen and not shuffling in the shadows. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a start. And that was enough to make me believe the next chapter would be even stronger. So for now, it’s time to set my pen down.

I sat in that worn-down seat and watched Sidney run through swamps and forests, sweating, fighting, surviving. He was no fool, no clown, no servant, but was actually a human. I thought to myself, “That’s a real man right there,” and as I looked around the theater, I could see the pride in all of our eyes.

However, as we clapped, I began to hear the whispers starting, all about Sidney is portrayed so perfectly on screen: clean, light-skinned, soft-spoken, unthreatening. They love him because he doesn’t scare them. In The Defiant Ones, and again later in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner where Sidney plays the negro any white parent would accept as a doctor, brilliant and mannered, asking permission at every step.

Meanwhile outside, the streets of the south are still on fire with sit-ins, marches, and riots. But Hollywood doesn't show that. They show Sidney, smiling and noble, as if that’s enough. And it is huge. I won't downplay it, to have a black actor who is a peer towards the other white people on stage, and who portrays one of us as just as capable and competent as others is very important. I just wish it was also being shown by someone a bit bigger, darker, more realistic. But I can’t blame Sidney, he opened the door into Hollywood studios and will do whatever he can to keep his job as it flourishes. But sometimes I wonder: who will they let through next, and how is it going to reflect the rest of us?

These “passing” stories ain’t really about us. They’re about white folks realizing how thin the line is and how close we are to them when they thought we were worlds apart. And yet they never let the ones who can’t pass be seen with that same respect. What about the rest of us? The ones with dark skin, southern accents, and no way to hide? Seems to me they only want to treat us like people when they think we aren’t really black at all.

I read that the NAACP tried to stop the movie, worried it would be another version of Birth of a Nation, but that MGM promised them a “better version,” but I see the same lie that continues to be wrapped in film, that slavery was gentle, and us blacks were happy just serving. That lie runs deep down here in Georgia. White folks still hire us to clean their homes and rock their babies, some even expecting us to smile while doing it.

Hattie McDaniel, the woman who played the maid and was a precise image of the Mammy, won best supporting actress for that movie, which made her the first black person to win an Oscar. I want to cheer, I really did. But as proud as I was of her, they wouldn’t even let her sit at the same table as the other stars regardless of how talented she was. So can we really call this progress? 

And it’s true, I went to go see for myself and I saw so many of our faces up there. Real faces, full-bodied, singing and shouting and crying. But still, something didn’t sit right. None of it was authentic. The man behind the camera, King Vidor, was white, and I couldn’t help but feel it throughout the entire film. The story follows a sharecropper who turns to God after tragedy, but it plays heavy on the stereotypes of blacks being spiritual, poor, emotional, with other typical southern attitudes, as if that’s all we are.

I wanted to love it, and some parts I did, like the music, the choir, the way black life filled the screen for once. But when the lights came up, I realized: this wasn't our voice. It was theirs, dressed in our skin. Still, I suppose it cracked open a window. Maybe one day we’ll be behind the camera too, telling the story our way, not theirs. But this time something in me is telling me we are truly stepping in the right direction.

What stirs me most is Oscar Micheaux. A black filmmaker who took matters into his own hands by making his own films. He was the son of slaves, and was so good at what he did I’ve even heard him called “The Jackie Robinson of the Film World”. His movie, Within Our Gates came out a few years back, and they say it showed us as teachers, workers, thinkers, and not fools or monsters. Some say he made it as an answer to Birth of a Nation, but I think he was just showing us as we are. Real. Juxtaposing others who portray us as slaves, maids, and plantation owners, Micheaux featured us as teachers, lawyers, doctors. People like him made it possible for the world to start seeing black identity, creativity, and power in a different light.

Folks down here in Atlanta still look at you sideways if you’re too proud, too loud, too black. But every time I read about what’s happening up north, I feel like something’s shifting. Like the lies they built on screen are starting to crack. And maybe, just maybe, our stories are starting to rise up from the shadows.

While the whites continued to enjoy their new film, we began to protest and riot, pleading with city officials to ban it. But despite our efforts now, the damage was already done. This film didn’t just reflect their lies about us, but it made those lies grand, noble, and national. I fear what tomorrow will bring, and the days that follow. I fear what white eyes will now see when they look at me, and how much more harsh we will be treated.

Tonight was the premier of a new film called Uncle Tom’s Cabin at the nickelodeon, I’ve heard it's a huge Hollywood release. I’m happy to say that I’m more than thrilled to see it and hope that it lives up to my expectations, I mean finally a film where I don’t need to worry about blackface, I’m sure James B. Lowe did a fantastic job. 

After the movie:

I’m disappointed to say the least. Throughout the movie, everyone else seemed to be loving it, the house was filled with laughter and tears, but I sat heavy, feeling invisible. Uncle Tom was gentle, and kind, yes, but he was bent low, too humble, too soft in the face of cruelty. Still the faithful servant to the whites around him, still asking, pleading, forgiving when they whipped him raw. It was the first big film starring a black actor and I wanted to see strength, anger, a man who knew his own worth and to represent the identity us African Americans have gained through our experience. Instead, it was the same old mask, just worn by one of our own now. The world sees what the screen shows them. It hurts in a different way now, seeing our own face still bowed on that silver screen, a part of me wants to say that I’d rather the white person look like a fool trying to be us, but I know that in some way this film was still a step forward in history. While I can only hope that maybe one day, we will be more than this and have our own defiant roles in a Hollywood movie.