Journal
On Grief
My father taught me grief first. It was easy for him to do because he also taught me love. I grew up in a house full of music with a larger than life musician for my dad. He used to say he’s “too hip for the room.” He knew how to make me laugh the hardest, always made me smile the biggest. I think he was too hip. Probably so. I know he was too mean, too drunk, too angry, too much for me when I was small. I know growing up didn’t help.
Overcoming Internalized Racism & Celebrating Yourself
Hello! I hope you’re well and having a joyful Juneteenth!
I am taking the day today to celebrate simply being Black. Which is something I was never taught to celebrate. As a biracial kid growing up in a white family in a rural midwestern town in the 80s, having brown skin was a constant cause of confusion and sadness. My mom is blond with pale white skin. I was forever longing for her long, straight hair and blue eyes.
There were zero kids of color at my school. Think about that for a minute. No Asian kids. No Latinx kids. No Black kids. Just me.
With my curls that my mom didn’t know how to tame. And my “weird” Nigerian name. And my brown skin.
