I’ve had a lifelong fascination with black history. One of the greatest gifts my parents gave me, especially my mother, is my name. I LOVE both my names-first and middle. They were always unique in classrooms. Knowing my names had meaning and cultural identity was always a source of pride and led to a thirst for learning history- world history; but black history in particular.
Can't remember a specific time when I became conscious of the African Diaspora- that the Atlantic-slave Trade forcefully scattered black people around the Americas. My mom had a habit of explaining everything, even when listening to her music. Like, what Osibisa mussy really
mean when they sing their version of "There's an Awful Lot of Coffee in Brazil". And growing up, many of my circle of family and friends were immersed
in African culture: in dress, by name, in conversations, in art, in music, in life. My Uncle Brian designed African dresses, tie-dyed and batik. And all around me were
people with names like Kojo and Shaka and Olatunji and Omowale. So, black history wasn't just a twenty-eight-day, February thing; Black history was 356 days, February to February, July to July.
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