It wasn’t until my butt was in a chair in an IMAX theater Thursday night that I realized what this movie would mean to me. Black Panther had been on my mind for the better part of the months following the first trailer premiere—when we got a glimpse of the grandeur Wakanda would dazzle us with. I talked to everyone who would listen about Danai Gurira’s involvement, squirreled Black Panther into the Off the Shelf editorial calendar at work, and accosted family and friends to make room for a screening or two. But on Thursday night, I had butterflies. I was expecting something to go wrong: What if the accents are terrible? What if it’s corny? What if I shouldn’t have believed the hype? I’ve never walked into a theater with these thoughts, these fears, because there has yet to be a film like this one where black people are the heroes of their own story, where melanin and beauty and strength are one in the same, where the narrative would depart from the poverty-stricken war-torn Africa the world …