I was born in 1984 in Quincy, Florida — a small town tucked in the northern panhandle, where church pews fill on Sundays, front porches hold generations of wisdom, and the echoes of emancipation are never far from memory. The 4th of July always meant family, food, and fireworks. But beneath the surface, I knew something was off. Even as a little girl, I remember wondering, What were my ancestors doing in 1776? The truth? They were not free. They were enslaved.