Picture it. Boston. 1975.
My parents had already met a few times before when they both ended up at an after party for Hugh Masakela. My mother, born and raised in the steel town of Homestead, PA, had already earned a masters degree and lived in Chicago, Salt Lake City, and the Bay Area. My dad, born and raised in The Gambia, had come to the United States to attend Hamilton College, migrated to Brooklyn and Harlem, and was in an African dance troupe based in Boston.
As the story goes, my mom had turned down my dad's previous requests for her phone number, but fortunately for us all, he persisted and they became a couple. My mother eventually moved to Banjul, joined the Peace Corps, married my dad and had me in 1978. We returned to Homestead in 1979 and I grew up in Pittsburgh, PA.
Growing up in the United States with a Gambian parent and a distinctly 'African' name added an additional layer to being Black in America. I grew up fully rooted in the Black American experience, an 80s and 90s kid obsessed with Hip Hop and R&B, eating benachin, yassa and domada with people speaking Wolof in the background.
I’m a proud Pittsburgh girl who is fiercely protective of the idea of Africa and how others perceive it.
I know that there are women like me out there with very similar experiences. Some of us grew up in the United States as the daughter of African immigrants. Some of us were born in the states and have spent a significant amount of time in Africa, or were born in Africa and have spent a great deal of time here in the states.
So many of us have stories to tell...stories that are interesting, rich and important.
These stories will be elevated and celebrated here.
