Typically after I watch a period film about racial tensions in the 1950s or '60s, I walk away from it thinking about how glad I am that things have changed — grateful that, as a minority, I grew up in an era that affords freedoms and liberties I might not have had access to in the past. Grateful that there is at least one tangible emotion I can cling to, even in the darkest of moments: hope.

So heading in to see the new big screen adaptation of August Wilson's play Fences, I expected to have a similar experience. But while listening to the notoriously bitter character Troy Maxson (portrayed brilliantly by the sure-to-be-a-2017-Oscar winner Denzel Washington, who also directed the film) vent about the racial barriers that prevented him from becoming a professional baseball player and making a better life for himself and his family, I wound up feeling the exact opposite of gratitude about how things have changed.

Instead, I came to a disturbing realization: Things really aren't all that different from the 1950s world of Fences and the current racial climate in 2016.

In many of the story's scenes, Troy commiserates over alcohol with his best friend, Jim (and sometimes, just drunkenly with himself), about his plight and how great things could have been for him if only he had the same opportunities as everyone else. His exasperation over the years creates a home environment thick with resentment and negativity, which begins to eat away at his relationship with his wife, Rose (portrayed by Viola Davis, who brought me to tears several times) and his son Cory (also an incredible performance by up-and-comer Jovan Adepo).

Much of the slow-burn, poetic film centers on the way Troy holds Cory back from a career in football. The father argues that, because Cory is Black, the white man won't let him succeed. Of course, much of Troy's reasoning for not allowing his son to reach (and reach for) his potential isn't totally racially driven; he's also just a selfish man, suspicious that his son might one day outshine him, achieving the things he never could in sports.

But on the surface, at least, the reason beneath his strictness is simple. Troy is afraid that the color of Cory's skin will keep him from realizing his dreams, and that failure will leave him disappointed and heartbroken.

Wilson wrote this play storyline in 1983, based on what life was like back in the 1950s. But it's still a common narrative between Black parents and children today. I've seen it time and time again in my own communities and circles: Parents whose fear and love for their children morphs into an overprotectiveness because they are scared of what their race could mean for their kids — and how it could hurt them.

So instead of pushing their kids to aim high, their instinct is to shelter their children from anything that could potentially beat them down. I've seen friends whose parents, like Troy, didn't push them to become doctors or writers or athletes because they were Black, and therefore they grew up with a massive chip on their shoulder — and an inability to dream caused by the messages of self-preservation that were passed down from their parents.