It’s Black History Month and I’ve decided to write an article, not because I want to, but because I’m black.

From a very young age, I’ve been possessed by an involuntary obligation to speak my mind about Black History Month—a month that feels no different to me than all the others. All year round I’m desperately in search of a face like mine amongst the stars just to relish those few, wonderful twinkles. I don’t need a special month to do it. Yet here I am, stressfully typing away, kneading the frustration out of my eyes and giving in to that dutiful reflex.

It is during this time that I transform into a magic­-8 ball of racial conversation—people always have the same questions, so I always have the same answers. Eyes flit toward me as soon as the first syllable of “slavery” is uttered and my opinion is hungrily sought out by the curious, the ignorant and that one professor that is too uncomfortable with the topic to have anything to say about it. In short, being black is exhausting.

Every opinion I have about racial topics has to be accurate, succinct and punctuated by an unpleasant, personal experience. I can’t mess up. The absolute worst and best is expected of me. There is no middle. There is only perfection or no effort at all.

I’d like to say I’m partial to the latter, but I fear how destructive my silence might be to “the cause.” Every contribution to a discussion becomes a lecture, every explanation, a soliloquy. Never does a day pass without someone asking me questions such as: Why is it okay for black people to say the n­-word? How come you don’t talk like you’re black? Why don’t white people get [fill in the blank]? Yes, it is exhausting, irritating and migraine-­inducing, but at the end of the day, it gives me the strangest sense of hope and satisfaction.

The people who ask questions—however mindless or offensive—will always be the ones who learn the most. The more that happens, the less I’ll have to do it. One day, eyes won’t turn toward me until after I’ve raised my hand. One day, my opinion won’t be treated as though it were the quintessence of all black thoughts on the matter. I will speak when I want to and not because I feel I have to. I will write because I’m a writer, not a soldier in the war against prejudice and stereotypes. One day, that war will be over. One day, I’ll be able to relax.

I’ve just got a lot of work to do before I can.