That I think about slavery every day. And have for as long as I can remember. Every time I look into my eyes, big and brown like Harriet’s and Sojourner’s and the thousands whose names I’ll never know. Every time I write my own name, “Allen” isn’t native to Jamaica.Read More
The long white spikes dig in and pull at the tight curls. Every time the brush goes through I scream, aware that my father might come in and tell me to be quiet. Bunday. That’s what I call it, “the weekly torture fest” when my mother wrestles with my unruly hair, tugging and wrangling it atop my head into a perfect ballet bun. So I can fall in line, dance for a mirror and learn Grace and Control.Read More
My mom. My first teacher. My inspiration. Because she fell in love and went with it even though he was black and her dad told her NO and the world still wasn't really ready for it. Even though she had never dated a black man. It wasn't about rebellion, about being a hippie, about trying the exotic. It was about following her heart. Pure and simple. And that's how she lives no matter what anybody has to say about it.
The other night in response to me agonizing over flying back to NY for Thanksgiving because it might mean cutting my cross-country journey short I say; But it's a tradition, I say, I feel bad not being here with you. She says, If I would've stuck to my tradition you and Ben never would've been here.