Frankly, My Dear, I Didn't Give a Damn.

I have an uncomfortable confession to make: my perspective on history has changed dramatically since I was a kid.

When I was just a tween, I read Gone with the Wind. I had already seen the movie and, like so many others, I was swept away by the colorful costumes, grand plantations, and the dramatic love story between Scarlett and Rhett. I still remember the moment I spotted the paperback in a store while visiting family in Ohio. The cover immediately caught my eye. So much romance! So much drama! I begged for it and devoured that book as quickly as I could.

At that young age, I didn’t question the story. I simply absorbed it.

At the time, I didn't realize that the enslavement of human beings was relegated to a mere backdrop to a romance, just a side note, left unexplored in the novel or film. It didn't occur to me that plantation life was being depicted as idyllic, complete with content and cheerful enslaved people working happily for their white owners. Or that the Confederate cause was framed as an honorable undertaking to preserve states' rights rather than a rebellion to preserve the institution of slavery.

I was so obsessed with the film that my sister bought me a copy of the book The Art of Gone with the Wind- Making of a Legend for my birthday. I devoured that book as well. But I remember reading that Hattie McDaniel, who portrayed Mammy, was not allowed to attend the 1939 Atlanta film premiere because of Georgia's Jim Crow segregation laws. This was something I didn't even think of as being a reality. I was shocked that, after the Civil War ended, injustice persisted.

As I grew older, and especially as I began formally studying history and anthropology, I realized something important: the way history is presented and framed matters just as much as the events themselves. Stories can shape our understanding of the past, sometimes romanticizing it, sometimes simplifying it, and sometimes leaving important voices out altogether.

Today, when we talk about equity in history, we are really talking about a simple but powerful idea: all stories are worth telling. The good, the bad, and the ugly. History becomes richer and more honest when we acknowledge the complicated realities of the past rather than smoothing them over.

History isn’t static. It is not a finished story sealed inside a textbook. Our understanding of it evolves as new voices are heard, new evidence is uncovered, and new generations ask different questions. Everything is connected: culture, power, memory, and the stories we choose to preserve.

One of the most valuable tools I encountered during my studies in anthropology is a concept called reflexivity. Reflexivity asks us to examine ourselves as we study the past. It reminds us that we all bring our own experiences, assumptions, privileges, and biases- whether we realize it or not- into the way we interpret history.

In other words, reflexivity encourages us to pause and ask: What perspective am I bringing to this story? And perhaps even more importantly: What perspectives might be missing?

Practicing reflexivity doesn’t mean rejecting the stories we once loved. It simply means approaching them with curiosity and honesty. It means recognizing that the past is complex, and that understanding it requires humility and an open mind.

Looking back, I can still remember the excitement of that younger version of myself discovering a dramatic historical novel on a bookstore shelf in Ohio. That moment sparked a lifelong love of stories about the past. But today, that love also comes with responsibility. The responsibility to look deeper, ask harder questions, and make space for histories that were not always told.

And in the end, that makes history far more interesting than any romanticized version ever could.