No Time to Be a Girl

My father was born in 1919, I in 1964.  He died at the age of 61, when I was 16.  I am as similar to him as a girl who was overly attached to rag dolls and tales of faeries, who grew up to love lipstick entirely too much, can be to a Black man who trained soldiers to fight for a country in which he himself was by law not allowed to drink from whatever water fountain he pleased.  He heard Malcolm X preach in Dudley Station in Roxbury.  I  used to hang out at the nearby library reading the poetry of Langston Hughes that Daddy’s voice had inspired me to love.

My father did not live to see a Black man make it to the top two candidates in his party to run for president of the USA.  By the time I was in college, I figured a man of color would be president someday.  Is it still amazing to see?  Well, yes.  I love the historic occurrence of a Black man running for president for  sentimental reasons; but today I did what my father taught me to do, to be my own woman and to think with my head.  I voted for Hillary Clinton—not because I never thought I’d see a woman president, not because I went to a girls’ prep school and a women’s college—because I think her the best person for the job of leading this country in times of war and peace.  My father would have understood.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.