Full Disclosure

My hair journey began before I had successfully mastered the skill of subtraction. One day in kindergarten, my mom sent me off to school with cornrows in my hair and a classmate of mine came up to me and told me I looked like a boy. During those same formative years I harbored an obsession with The Powerpuff Girls. I asked my mom every week to style my hair like Blossom or even Bubbles. She opted to tell me she didn’t know how to do it because she didn’t have the heart to tell me that my hair wouldn’t fall straight the way theirs did.   These moments didn’t stick in the forefront of my mind. In fact, I didn’t even remember either of these incidents again until I was preparing to go to college. But growing up in Vermont during a period in which it was the second whitest state in the country, my relationship with my hair was always complicated. Boundaries were often overstepped when it came to my personal space and emotional well being. In class students would complain that they coul

Last week I hope I illustrated that I am extremely proud of my mother’s Jamaican lineage. However, I would be remiss to brag about my maternal side and not mention the beautiful heritage my father has passed on to me. My dad grew up in the country of Belize, in an area called Dangriga. He is part of a group of people called the Garinagau, or Garifuna. I remember my childhood being marked by his proud stories of how the Garifuna people descended from a group of West Africans who were shipwrecked and escaped captivity, settling originally in St. Vincent. (Although readers of Ivan Van Sertima’s They Came Before Columbus may assert that their history in the Americas begins as early as 10th century B.C.). They intermarried with indegenous South American groups and became known as Black Caribs. Generations later, the people came to be found primarily in Belize, Honduras, and Guatemala. A complicated history certainly, but by now you must know that complexity is my mode of operation. Like wi

I am a Black woman. Black history is my history. But when it comes to my history, there is so much of it that you don’t know. My mother was born and raised in Jamaica. We had a clock with Bob Marley’s face hanging on the wall of my childhood home. Her accent appeared strong and thick whenever relatives called or I did something to make her upset. And the poetry of Lousie Bennett-Coverly was a staple on the bookshelf. While I knew that my heritage was half Jamaican, my history did not come alive for me until a family vacation to the island. in the summer of 2009. It was during this time that we spent time in the house my mother grew up in. I saw the garden that she worked to grow fruits and vegetables her family ate. I sat in the room where she learned to sew. I listened to my grandmother speak with a thick accent that needed no prompting. I examined the strong foundation of a house that mirrored the strong foundation of my family line. It was also during this time that we visited Bob M

Over the past week, we have seen inspiring and exciting change. Breonna’s Law, regulating no-knock warrants, was passed through the public safety committee in Louisville, KY. The murderer of George Floyd as well as his accomplices have been charged as such. Statues built to glorify racists have been torn down. And cities are taking serious steps to defund their police departments and redirect those dollars back to the community that is long overdue for support. The question as we ride on this momentum seems to be, “where do we go from here?” Now that we have succeeded in making our voices heard and pressuring lawmakers into the beginning of concrete action, we must begin to attack the root of the problem by addressing the insidious nature of racism in this country. And that means having many discussions. Many white allies have turned to social media and made their voices heard in a variety of ways. I have been frankly floored by the amount of sharing on my timeline of resources for pro

As I sit at home in the middle of the afternoon, I cannot help but think how surreal it is to see that just 50 years after 1968, we are here yet again. The emotional roller coaster I have gone on the past two weeks is unexplainable. George Floyd was murdered in spite of his compliance. Breonna Taylor was gunned down in her own home. Every act of brutal violence against those who look like me makes my heart heavy. As the days go by, I am more and more burdened by the knowledge that there is injustice waiting for me around every corner in the minefield that is this nation’s unchecked white supremacy. And what frightens me even more is the church’s compliance in this system. When Trayvon Martin was murdered in 2012, my white Christian friend told me that black on black crime was the real problem, not police brutality. I told her she had a point and resolved never to sleep over at her house again. In the spring of 2015 there were protests and sit ins occurring on my liberal college cam

Dear Jesus, I’m so weary. I can’t turn on the news or scroll through a feed without seeing pain inflicted on people who look like me. Every day time goes forward but we stay stuck in place. I feel obligated to act and yet I feel immobilized. Where do I go, what do I do? I can’t organize, I’m not a leader. I don’t have the strength and formidable presence to stand up in the streets. All my energy is spent wondering how many of my followers are really my friends. Who can I trust to protect me when it matters, to stand up for me when something isn’t right? How will I bring a child into this world that is set up to make people who look like me fail? I have so many questions and the answers just aren’t clear. Whenever well-meaning people message me with well wishes or hopes of checking in, I feel myself sinking further and further into numb dissociation. People love to say this country was built on Christian values, but where is God in a country that values subjugating Black lives? Wher