Growing up in Brooklyn in the late 1960s, I remember segregation, redlining, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, and the problems that were going on around me in America, I didn’t really understand why some people were poor, rich, or middle class. I grew up in a household of eight siblings besides myself. While I knew we were considered poor, I was also aware that there were others who were poorer than us. That didn’t matter because we had each other. And my parents made sure we wore clean clothes and we had a roof over our heads and healthy food on the table to eat.

Growing up, I learned to be creative by watching my older siblings and my parents. It was never boring around the house. I learned about music, the arts and culture. I loved when my sister told us the younger siblings’ stories while our parents were asleep at night. We would put a sheet over the kitchen table and sit under the table, lighting a candle. I can never forget that she set up this tage of telling stories for me.