In 2017 on the red carpet for the Emmys, actress, writer and producer Issa Rae was asked who she was rooting for to take home awards. She bluntly replied, “I’m rooting for everybody Black,” adding “I am!” when her interviewer let out an awkward chuckle. The phrase spread like wildfire, becoming something of a mantra for Black viewers during that award season and the ones following. Her sentiment is age-old and reflective of a world where progress is so slow, any steps forward are a thing of value. And it’s no wonder that they are—even today, Black Americans are breaking firsts. This year, Harvard had its first Black student body president. The Catholic Church elevated Archbishop Wilton Gregory to be the first African-American Cardinal in October. Four years ago we had our first Black president; only a few weeks ago we elected our first Black vice president-elect.

When it’s so unusual to see meaningful representation of Blackness in all forums of American life, it’s not surprising that we gravitate towards the accomplishments of those who look like us. When Obama was voted into office, my parents—Jamaican immigrants who had nothing but derision for American politics only a few months prior—not only drove six hours to attend his inauguration but brought back T-shirts for my brother and me with the First Black Family on them. His achievements felt like ours: like a miracle. We didn’t care how sinister the power he had attained as president was—only that a Black man had attained it.

But today, looking back on Obama’s legacy and looking ahead to Kamala’s, I can no longer afford to fall into the comfort that seeing a Black person succeed brings me. Is it really a cause to celebrate that Obama was given the reins to an imperialist war machine? Why do we find comfort in knowing that one of our own has gained the power to oppress us? True, Obama is an inspiration to a whole generation of children who grew up knowing that a Black man could lead their country. But he is also responsible for the bombing and murder of hundreds of civilians in Pakistan, Somalia and Yemen. Kamala Harris is the fruit of a new era for women of color in politics. But she is also a self-proclaimed “Top Cop” who is inconsistent in her stance on fracking and a promoter of healthcare and criminal justice plans that are nowhere near as progressive as they need to be.

Settling for the Kamalas and Obamas in politics is understandable. But what we saw for Obama then and are seeing for Kamala now is not settling but celebration and exoneration. I saw Kamala fancams on Twitter hours after Biden announced her as his VP; Obama continues to be a face of comfort for many Black Americans who were directly hurt by his centrism. Celebrating the ascent of a Black politician simply for being Black is naive, especially if that Black politician is just as apathetic as all the white ones before them.

It is time to stop rooting for everybody Black in the arena of politics. Blackness does not necessitate allyship or even the most basic level of sympathy for Black people. Sure, there is a positive social impact in a little Black kid seeing a Black person in the White House. But it is not worth more than the moral indefensibility of idolizing a murderer.

The emotion Issa Rae felt standing on that red carpet was neither wrong nor reproachable. There’s nothing wrong with getting chills when you watch Serena or Venus Williams play or claiming all the Black characters in TV shows as your favorites. But stop deifying people with the power to enforce bad politics, no matter their skin color. And please, for the love of God, stop making Kamala Harris fancams.