Beautifully Curated - By Ghanaughn Brown

I was raised by a Black Panther that pioneered the free lunch program in schools that were strategically forgotten by many and poured into by few. My mother’s round afro, dark brown skin, petite frame, bell bottoms, and soft smile, is how I have seen her in photos aged with cracks and patina. You see, she was used to the idea of breaking barriers. Her grandparents, ‘The Jennings', were the first black family on a block in Albany, New York. Decades later, that young woman in that pic, Catherine Andrews, became the first African American to have a closed-door office at Kaiser Permanente on Sunset. And still decades later, she was the recipient of a Congressional Award for her school's high test scores…an elementary school she was the principal of in Watts. She made incredible dishes from nothing in the fridge, Christmas gifts with pure creativity, and anything that my two brothers and I were interested in, was a whim to be deeply explored. If you believe in miracles, she embodied its essence.

My father was a Vietnam Vet whose self-taught talent led him to play Taps more times than he wanted to. He credits God and his music for keeping a trumpet in his hands instead of a gun. But, he will tell the story of a fateful night and a lucky banana peel he slipped on that saved his head from bullets…told with disbelief and many wonders as his eyes would drift off in the distance, searching for a reason, and then returning, content with acceptance. With his tall-yellow-boned frame and charming persona, he could hold you captive with his praise and stories. He later toured the world with his music and famous artists. He served on the Los Angeles Police Force. And when he settled down, he was most beloved for making math fun, and introducing the language of music to inner-city high school students, all while still setting the famed Leimert Park Jazz joints, ‘The World Stage’ and ‘Fifth Street Dick’s’ ablaze, with a smooth trumpet riff from the steady lungs of a man that knew pain, and joy, and the sultry sound it makes when they come together. (In his world I was known solely as Mike’s daughter. I liked the sound of that.)

And together they made me.

Music brought them together, but their love for being black filled up any and every empty space that could have existed. The music, the slang, the movies, the African-American and African history hidden from the American school system, (Because no, the beginning of you is not slavery, and no, the history of you does not begin with segregation, and no, Martin Luther King did not end racism, and knowing the truth of you is one of the most critical things), Leimert Park, jazz, ‘The Cosby Show’, ‘Different World’, HBCU’s, black-eyed peas for New Years Day and chitlins’, Kwanzaa, Dr. Maulana Karenga, fifty-step-Louisiana gumbo, respect for elders, spades, dominos, play cousins, the Dozens. And as artists and musicians and lovers-of-life filled our idyllic Inglewood home, (Some people you may know, most you don't.) The chattering of ALL of it made such a sweet noise…to a young black girl.

They made me. And I too…was filled to the brim.

You see, being a beautiful young black girl whose black upbringing was as curated as the Getty Museum…was as bendy as a wet set curl with fresh gel, as tangled as a freshly patted fro in a clean shape…you betta not touch, and as wispy as a silk press blowing in the wind.

Ever changing but still mine. I proudly owned every strand of it.

I owned myself as bendy. In the face of a pretty but odd-looking-red-haired 8th-grade girl with freckles and glasses that told me that black people make everything bad…I bent, but bounced back.

I owned myself as tangled. When I was told by my then childhood cool-white-best friend that we could not be friends anymore because her brother joined the KKK. I tangled, but picked myself through.

I owned myself as wispy. When I was told by Westchester High school counselors that I could not take AP and Honors classes because my Statewide Gifted Test administered in the Inglewood School District did not count. This was a lie told to deserving black kids to keep them out of the seats they wanted their white children to fill. We helped them recognize the truth. I got the appropriate classes that I was overqualified for. I chose to be wispy and remain carefree and focused. Although my heart still breaks for those black and brown kids that did not have an advocate. I still see their faces. (I later attended UCLA, and then went on to serve in the full-time ministry…working with teens in the inner-city, helping many achieve their dreams of attending university.)

When you know who you are…you can’t be defined by the other…even as a young girl, that grew into a young woman.

And decades later,

I still love being a black woman.

I love being a black woman loved by God.

I love being a black woman loved by my husband.

I love being a black woman with purpose and resources that we have used to start a school in West Africa where African history is at the center, and children are learning to speak and assert their powerful thoughts with confidence.

And as bendy and tangled and wispy life has been…I love being loved through it all.

We curate.

My husband and I made four beautiful brown humans, one girl, three boys. We travel the world together and have spent half a decade in Lagos, Nigeria. We built an incredible community there. A community where friends have become family, and our resources have been used to create a beautiful and conducive meeting place where the Lagos church calls home. We talk about real black history like the Moors, jazz from Coltrane, Bird, and Davis. We teach them about black inventors and entrepreneurs. We teach our kids to want things but never need. We teach our kids that life is hard…work harder. Life is unfair, don’t complain…create winning opportunities. We teach them their fathers’ tongue, Igbo, and we expose them to restaurants and stores that they should never feel uncomfortable stepping into...ever. I wear my hair natural often, so that my daughter can walk into the beauty that God has already given her with ease, and so my boys can appreciate the natural beauty of a black woman. We visit Leimert Park, and the newly renovated ‘Word Stage’. It would not be odd to find a streamed episode of ‘Different World’ playing while I am doing my daughter’s hair. They definitely know Whitley and Dwayne Wayne. Not to mention 90s hip hop. If you don’t know the difference between Biggie and Tupac…that’s a problem.

I pray that my kids grow up full. Full of appreciation for what God has beautifully crafted, and full of the Holy Spirit.

As for me, in this season, I am full of gratitude to not only be fortified by the beautiful black upbringing God bestowed upon me, but to be defined by the rich heritage of Jesus Christ and God's love for me on the cross.