Walking into the theatre to see Black Panther in February 2018 was the closest I’d come to going to church since, well, church. Like every Black person I know, I watched it on the big screen multiple times — eight glorious times. Every time, I got to witness the roar of the crowd when Chadwick Boseman first swaggers on screen with King T’Challa’s singular regal intensity. And the deafening cheer every time T’Challa’s signature salute is accompanied by its rebel yell: “Wakanda Forever!” Every time, I watched Black people shuffle out of the theatre in awe of what they had just witnessed: a superhero movie for us, beyond our wildest childhood dreams. A breathtaking answer to our unspoken prayers. Every time, I teared up at the little Black kids dressed in Black Panther costumes, finally able to look up to a hero that looked like them. It never got old. One of the many things I loved about being a fan of Boseman’s Black Panther was that it never seemed to get old for him, either.