As long as I can remember, I loved the sight of books. Even when I couldn’t read them, they seemed to be mystical and intimate. I used to hold them in my hand and scan the pages. I knew one day, I would learn how to read and have enough patience to enjoy a book… and I did. Now, I have an extreme thirst for books of history and it doesn’t matter whether it’s European, Asian, African or American history — I find great delight in them all.
The core of me is historically infused by nature and the solid rock of ancient testimony is
my foundation. Whether it’s about Cyrus the Great, Maya Angelou, Xerxes — or even Josephus, who wrote, “… but others there are, who, of necessity and by force, are driven to write history, because they are concerned in the facts, and so cannot excuse themselves from committing them to writing.” Being born in America is absolutely a wonderful blessing hidden in the thickets, between the books and libraries offering infinite perspectives of lies and truths. When considering history and reading it as it relates to African Americans, it can be very depressing and confusing. On one hand, I was born in the greatest county on earth, a nation who fights for freedom all over the world; but when it comes to the history of African Americans, well –“it’s complicated.”
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