“I don’t want to move to Canada” my 8 year old daughter, Sage, said through streaming tears after I informed her that Trump had “won” the election.
“Honey, listen we are not moving to Canada. I shouldn’t have told you that.” I took in a deep breath, sighed, and continued on. “I thought this would never happen. It’s kinda like when I told you there was a Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny. It’s something I said that wasn’t true. I thought it was cute and would make you feel good. I’m sorry.”
“What about my friends in school? Their parents said they’re moving to Canada too. I don’t want them to go.”
“I think those parents were just like me. They just didn’t think this would happen.”
Then I did it again, I lied to my daughter.
“There is nothing to worry about.” Read more
I was stuck. I couldn’t see beyond the gridlock, but since I had my three girls with me, I tried my best to remain cool. In tow: Skye, my 11-year-old, Sage, my 8-year-old, and Siena, my 1-year-old baby.
Other than Siena, who was knocked out from the lull of the drive, we were becoming impatient with the traffic and silently brewing. Then Sage asked the question she’s been probing me about for months – “Mom, what would happen if Donald Trump won?” Read more
I remember the first time we met three years ago. I trekked through the rain to the chic and cozy restaurant in Philly where we agreed to meet. At the time, we were both bringing awareness to the complicated issue of colorism—you with your book (1) Drop: Shifting the Lens on Race and me with my children’s book Same Difference.
It was inevitable that we discussed a collaboration, and I was excited about the possibility. As we sat across from each other, I realized that we represented opposite ends of the same spectrum. I’m what some call “high yellow” and you are dark brown. Read more
For the last two months, I have been wanting to write a blog about gratitude. And it’s pretty telling about my state of mind that it has been so hard to get done. Believe me, I see myself as a blessed person with a supportive family and a great group friends. However, even with all the love around me, it’s hard to sustain a feeling of gratitude. At first, I blamed my lackluster emotions on the constant news updates and social media posts about black people dying at the hands of the police. Then the attacks by ISIS. Then the fact that Donald Trump keeps talking. But then, a few days ago, it became clear to me what the problem really was.
Over the last six weeks, it has become clear that whoever coined the phase “Don’t cry over spilled milk” wasn’t a breastfeeding mother. I can tell you firsthand that if you spill the milk it took you 20 minutes to pump out of your sore nipples, you’ll not only cry but curse and scream as well.
I remember one of my crazy family members telling me that I looked like a cow when I was pregnant. Maybe he was on to something because these days I surely feel like one.