Category: Board Member

"As a Black transracial adoptee, my identity as a Black person was not always something I celebrated. My closest family members are white. My parents are white. My school, my church, all my friends were white. At home, we had dolls, books, and toys to remind me that Black people exist, and Black people are beautiful. But still, my surroundings were white.

One time, maybe around 8 or 9 years old, I was in the car with a friend and her mom (both white) when my friend asked me why I was darker than my family. Excitement shot through my body. I knew my story was special. My family and I always shared this story among ourselves with such pride. As I began to explain my adoption story, my friend's mom whipped her head around from the front seat to scold her daughter for asking such a personal question. I felt the embarrassment rush in. "Maybe being adopted is bad," I told myself. 'Maybe being Black is bad.'

I decided I didn't want to talk about it anymore. My Blackness became something to hide. I would straighten my hair, watch Lizzie McGuire, and listen to 'white people music' only. I suppressed myself. Condensed myself. I made myself less. I figured if I could fly under the radar, 'act less Black,' maybe no one would notice or ask questions.

When I started college, my whole world changed. I had enrolled in a program specifically designed for students of color. For the first time in my life I had Black educators. All my professors were Black, and all my peers were people of color. The people I saw every day were people of color. For the first time ever, I didn't feel smaller than the people around me. I felt the flimsy shell of faux-whiteness cracking off my Black skin. I felt Black. But not in a 'stop asking questions' way. I felt Black in a good way.

Recently, the Black experience in America has been under more surveillance than ever. Netflix and HBO are highlighting films with Black actors. Ben and Jerry's broke the internet in June of 2020 with this hot take. Ibram X Kendi sold nearly 2 Million copies of 'How to Be an Antiracist.' Everyone is reading the books. Everyone is eyeing the statistics. Everyone is trying to do their due diligence as we unpack 'Black.' For me, my due diligence is an internal reminder that I owe to my once-9-year-old self: My experience is a Black experience simply because I am Black.

I am Black. I am Black in a good way. I am Black in the best way. I am not small. I am not hiding. I am so proud to be Black. I am so proud to be me. "

"I’m using this month to reflect on how I invest my time, talent, and treasure to support and amplify Black voices in my personal and professional realms. The erasure of Black voices in history, education, and liberation movements (only to name a few) is perpetuated and upheld by individuals and systems that do not correct past and current treatment of Black Americans. While dedicating a month to honor and celebrate Black Americans’ contributions to the nation is important, it’s also essential that we make long term solutions to amplify and support the Black community all year long.

In my professional day to day activities I’m making a point to research, read, and listen to Black philanthropists. If there’s one thing I have learned it’s that Black philanthropy IS American philanthropy. Black erasure is prevalent in most every sector, but especially philanthropy. Where certain groups are labeled “givers” or “receivers.” According to the 2018 Demographic Report of the Association of Fundraising Professionals of the more than 31,000 members, less than 10 percent are professionals of color (This includes those who self-identify as: African American, Hispanic, Native American, Multi-Ethnic, Alaskan Native, and Pacific Islander). This is problematic for a number of reasons, more than I can speak on in a blog. But this led me to begin exploring how Black philanthropists have been erased from history and why most fundraising practices are focused on white, upper-middle class donors.

A prime example is of Madam C.J. Walker’s legacy of charitable giving during the 1900s and Jim Crow era, which is often overlooked or a footnote in her accomplishments. Madame C.J. Walker was born to enslaved parents, was orphaned young, and became the first SELF-MADE millionaire. Her giving was strategic and an essential part of her life no matter what amount she had in her pockets.
Book: Madam C.J. Walker’s Gospel of Giving: Black Women’s Philanthropy During Jim Crow by Tyrone McKinley Freeman
Netflix Limited Series: Self Made: Inspired by the Life of Madam C.J. Walker

I’m an avid reader and love to explore local coffee shops. This month I've been adding to my list of Black-owned businesses, authors, and movements to further my knowledge and support local.
A City Within a City: The Black Freedom Struggle in Grand Rapids, MI by Todd E. Robinson
Unbound: My Story of Liberation and the Birth of the Me Too Movement by Tarana Burke
Born a Crime by Trevor Noah
The Gilded Ones by Namina Forna
Children of Blood and Bone by Tomi Adeyemi
Bookstore:When you are buying books, see if we are lit (local multicultural bookstore) has it first!
While you’re at it, support Black-owned coffee shops like Last Mile Cafe and Shift Coffee + Culture🙂

I’m always geeked to meet a fellow bibliophile and nerd out on my latest reads - add me on Goodreads!"

"Black History Month is a regular opportunity for me to remember how much I simply don't know, and to be grateful for the beautiful, kind, patient Black people who have graciously helped me learn (or graciously told me to stop asking them and go learn on my own). This month is a cognitive reminder to celebrate the accomplishments collectively fought for and made, to lament how far we have yet to go and the inequities that remain in our society, and to make actual plans and move forward real goals towards change. Black History Month makes me remember that I need to strive for more empathy, that there are stories and life experiences that I will never understand, that I need to believe black people when they share their experiences and follow their lead in change."

"I have spent a lot of my life wondering about my identity. As a biracial Black woman, whose Black roots cross a variety of cultures and histories, I never felt like I was allowed to claim myself as Black. I grew up in Maine, surrounded by White people, asking me 'What are you?,' or making racist comments about my appearance, or making racist jokes around me then claiming I couldn’t be offended because I 'wasn’t actually Black.'

In college, I learned about Black identity development, and I experienced what is known as the encounter stage, in which I recognized not only that I was Black, but that I had lived through many painful and formative experiences specifically because I was Black. After that, I immersed myself in owning this identity, and being proud of it, and not concerning myself with what others thought I was, or whether they thought I was enough.

My new reality, however, is one of understanding what it means to be biracial Black. Because I do have many privileges not bestowed upon Black people. I recognize that I do not experience a lot of racial discrimination placed upon those who present as Black, and that I must do my part to ensure those voices are heard and that I am listening.

I continue to learn more about my Cape Verdean culture, I listen to the stories of others who have experienced life similarly to me. I spend time trying to find events, activities, communities in which people of color will surround me, so that I may immerse myself and my family into environments where I am safe, where I can connect with others, and where I can listen to their stories."