My grandmother was obsessed with black Hollywood. At her funeral this past February, each of her grandchildren was allowed to come to the microphone and share a memory of her, or a few kind words. I believe four of us mentioned her penchant for texting us news about celebrities as if they were our family members. She studied her TV Guide, subscribed to any magazine that regularly put black people on the cover, and even when the Internet made sure the young members of her brood had information long before she did, we still looked forward to our updates.

"Beyoncé had a little girl!"

"Michael Joseph Jackson died today."

"That show 'Scandal' starts tonight! A black woman is writing it! Watch it!"

Remembering these moments brought levity to what felt like such a dark day. Even as cancer slowly whittled her body away, her love for black people in entertainment burned brightly in her heart. My siblings, cousins, and I always thought this was the silliest part of her personality. It was something we chuckled about, or sent each other screenshots of to commiserate. "We have to lift each other up," she would say to us when we asked why she was sending us these texts. "We have to support our people." I couldn't understand how people so far away from us, living lives so unlike ours in Fort Wayne, Indiana, could be this important to her. I couldn't understand what celebrating their accomplishments did for us. Until, of course, I did.

###

My grandmother's mother was the first black nurse in Boone County, Missouri. For years, the photo of her graduating with her class was always displayed somewhere in my grandmother's house. As a child, this was how I thought of black firsts: iconic, courageous, and most importantly, in the past. I asked my grandmother if her mother was the best black nurse the hospital ever saw. She said, "Maybe she was the best, but that wasn't really the point. The point was that they hadn't even let anybody else in." I was confused. In school, we learned about so many black firsts (during Black History Month), that I assumed they were all just the first black people good enough at whatever they wanted to do to be considered for awards, politics, prestigious jobs, etc. It never occurred to me that being the first could just mean someone else decided to recognize you, not that no one else had ever worked as hard or done as well.

Before college, school teaches you that slavery happened and then it stopped happening. It does not teach you how the affects of slavery or institutionalized racism still affect black people today. The same goes for sexism. It does not teach you that you could end up being a "first." You will only hear that from your family. The summer after I graduated high school, I worked at a Boy Scout camp, helping with first year scouts and teaching wilderness survival. It was the first time I had to live in a space without one other black person around. Eventually, I worked up the nerve to ask the directors if I was the first black person to ever work there. The camp was founded in 1968, so I didn't think it could be true, but I wanted to know. They went through all the composite photos of summer staff, came back to me and told me, "We can't find record of any other black person ever working here. You're the first. Maybe we should get you a badge." A badge for what, I didn't know. I wasn't the best black scout they'd ever had, just the first they ever thought to hire. I couldn't even swim.

In 2011, I remember walking into my grandmother's living room, and sitting on the couch beside her as she flipped through a copy of Essence magazine. There was a woman on the cover I recognized, but couldn't immediately name. I'd seen her in a number of movies over the years, and always thought her striking, if not obviously stealing the scene. I asked my grandmother who she was, and she said, "Viola Davis. She's excellent. I hope really they give her an Oscar." She continued to read the article, a wrinkle in her brow, and moving her lips with the words. After she finished the article, I grabbed the magazine and curled up on the couch to read about this Viola Davis. I'm certain it wasn't, but it felt like the first time a black actress was speaking directly to and for me. As soon as I read the following quote, she had a fan for life:

"As Black women, we're always given these seemingly devastating experiences—experiences that could absolutely break us. But what the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls the butterfly."

###

I don't have a television, but last night I found an illegal stream and watched the Emmys. There were so many people I was rooting for, but none as much as Davis. If she won, she would become the first black woman to win for Best Leading Actress in a Drama. She is only the third black woman nominated in my lifetime. When Regina King won Outstanding Supporting Actress in a Limited Series or a Movie, I got scared. Black people know this fear. If she won, is it possible they will allow another black woman to win tonight? Then Uzo Aduba won for Best Supporting Actress in a Drama, and I remembered something I'd said to a group of teen girls earlier in the day: "Do not approach your work from a place of scarcity. There is enough for you and the girl who looks like you, does something similar to what you do, and even someone who does it better. Because what you do is uniquely you. Be kind and serve your sisters. There is enough."

Then came time for the Best Actress in a Drama. I clasped my hands. When they said Davis's name, I leapt from my chair, my hands raised in the air, and my grandmother was immediately on my mind. I wanted to text her the news.

Davis began her acceptance speech with a quote from Harriet Tubman, "In my mind, I see a line. And over that line, I see green fields and lovely flowers and beautiful white women with their arms stretched out to me over that line. But I can't seem to get there no how. I can't seem to get over that line." Then, she proceeded to shout out black women who had been nominated for the same award, black women who should have been, and black women who have lead their own dramatic series. She lifted them. She supported them. I realized that she called their names because she knows what it took me until adulthood to figure out: There will be many more black firsts, even more for black women, but we've already earned them. And we will continue to earn them. And some day, they'll let one of us in. When I saw her standing there, passionate and poised, her natural hair flourishing, and an Emmy in her hands, I was not grateful for her win. Her recognition—our recognition—was overdue.

See, gratitude isn't necessary. At least, not the kind of gratitude that would have us believe that criticizing these systems of oppression is rude or uncalled for after a door or two has been opened for us. The implication here is that we are staring a gift horse in the mouth, or that we haven't earned recognition as much as run down the clock on racism. Davis did not demure in her acceptance speech, simply accepting her award and being grateful that they allowed three black women to win on one night. She challenged the lack of roles for women who look like her. She accepted the gift while staring the horse down. Her gratitude was for the black women who came before her, not the institution that shut them out. She was defiant, and she was beautiful. My grandmother would have been proud.

I believe that black performers won't always be beholden to white standards of excellence. This morning, I texted my sister and cousin to tell them about Davis' win. I said, "You probably already know about it, but I think Grandma would want me to tell you anyway." That text turned into a long back and forth of celebration, memories, and ultimately, tears for the woman we miss. We lifted each other up, supported each other, and resolved that the next black firsts would belong to us. We would kick down the doors instead of hoping to be let in. We would try. If only to make room for the black butterflies waiting behind our wings.

This content is created and maintained by a third party, and imported onto this page to help users provide their email addresses. You may be able to find more information about this and similar content at piano.io