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My hunky husband took our boys to the park yesterday evening. He snapped some pics from their guy-time. They’re gorgeous, my big man included (even though he’s not pictured, obviously).

🇱🇷 Happy Liberian Independence Day to them! 🇱🇷 So glad that my mini-kings get to grow up connected to their Dad’s West African roots. He lived there, in Liberia, as a kid and still has family there. I am so looking forward to teaching our sons about their heritage. In a way, I’m also a bit envious. I know it’s horrible to be jealous of your kids, but hear me out. They have a place! As a Black American I cannot in anyway relate. I have nowhere.  I cannot easily trace a place of origin. Sure, I could pay hundreds for a DNA service to take a scientific partial guess, but even if that gives me country names that is all it would be. I wouldn’t have treasured family recipes from my country. I wouldn’t have family members who I could visit in my place. No stories, no land, no home. It’s the sad reality that is unique to us descendants of the Slave Trade’s survivors. I am happy, however, for my sons. They can identify with a specific geographical location. Only someone like myself, who cannot, truly understands what a luxury that is.

My husband says his great country will adopt me. Isn’t that the beauty of the African Diaspora? Always willing to make a place for those of us displaced by our history, for the sake of our future.