My white friends, I am writing from a place of desperation, of sadness and of fear. My family – black husband, brown kids and white me –...

“N****r lover.” Picture entitled Spread Love Poster from Wix He said it as I was exiting the building and he – an older white man – was entering. I froze. My arms were full – an infant in one and a small hand holding onto the other. My attention was fixed on negotiating with the toddler holding into my arm about the walk through the parking lot to our car. It was an ordinary moment. Until he spoke, I didn’t notice another person sharing space with us and the unexpected voice

July 4th is complicated for my Kenyan, American, black, brown and white family. First, it’s my birthday and my kids seem to think...

Today our family celebrates freedom. We dance and sing because of emancipation for black enslaved people and to salute the autonomy of...

My white friends, I need to be honest about something—whiteness is trying to ruin my life. I think it might be trying to ruin yours too....

A new year always nudges me toward beginnings. Toward origin stories. Toward the question: How did I get here? Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash Lately, I’ve been thinking about two beginnings in particular. The start of how I came to examine whiteness—and the early days of this blog. Neither of those were inevitable. I wasn’t always interested in what it means to be white in the U.S. And I never imagined myself a writer. Both arrived quietly and slowly. Through relationships