I grew up in a home where both parents had a heritage rooted in black America. My father was born in Mississippi to parents who operated a farm his entire life. He had 2 sisters and a brother. Once he grew up, he moved to Illinois, took a job, got married, and started a family.

My mother was born in Louisiana to a father who was directly of African descent and a mother who was directly of Indian descent. They moved to California and made a home with just one daughter and many sons. His brothers ended up joining the army and made a career serving and protecting our country.

As a child we never had much money, but my family managed to buy a house, my father always had a good car and worked every day to support his family. I learned from my father the importance of a great work ethic, the importance of caring for your family, and how to navigate being black in America. We would see how his white bosses spoke to him in front of others and how when the police stopped us for any reason we ended up in the police stations having to explain why we were in our car for any reason. I used to think that everyone was treated this badly, but as I got older, I saw that it was actually limited to “non-white” people. I was a frank child and many times my father would silence me and say “you can’t just say what you think when you are dealing with white people. Many believe that a black man has no voice and should not be heard.”

My mother was a loving and protective woman. He did not work outside the home, but took care of herself and her children. There was a time when we were in elementary school, my classroom was going to the bathroom, and my sisters’ class was already in the hallway getting ready to go back to class. I saw my sister and her friends just talking and being girls when the headmistress, Mrs. Brown, a white woman, came down the hall, told the girls to stop talking in the hall and proceed to grab my sisters by the ear and take it out of the room. line to tell him to shut up. As a younger brother, I wanted to say something because I saw my sister cry from being handled so roughly. When we got home I told her to tell my mother, but she didn’t want to. So I did it. My mother was in the principal’s office the next day and after talking to the teacher about the incident (which many children and staff witnessed) she went to the principal’s office and let her know that under no circumstances was she going to lay her hands . about my sister again. The principal was surprised to see that my mother spoke to her the way she did, but my mother was not afraid to speak up when it came to protecting her children.

Growing up black in America means you have many memories of being treated unevenly compared to other white children. It means that a society was always trying to show you your “place in the world”. Racial slurs, comments insulting your intelligence, and people trying to make you feel inferior to them were common.

I’m glad that some things have changed and improved for black people here. It saddens me that we still have a long way to go. God never made an inferior race; people just get stuck wanting to feel superior to someone.