The Legend of Giants: Celebrating Filipino American History Month


Did you know? The month of October is Filipino American History Month.

As we near the end of October (and thus, Halloween), I think one way to celebrate this month is to recognize and appreciate the history, resilience, and accomplishments of the Filipino American community. Another way to celebrate Filipino American History Month is to pay homage to the giants standing in your own backyard, the ones rooting for you from your corner, the heroes that get remembered, but the legends who never die. For me, that’s my mum. I don’t always say mum, but it just sounded fun in that last sentence. But I tend to go with mom, mother, ma, and sometimes nay (short for nanay in tagalog). Here she is below in such a rockstar outfit (exact day and year, TBD). So if you think I slay the game, just know that I get it from my mama.


Now, in thinking about how I wanted to highlight her narrative as a way to ground this month in love and appreciation, I asked her to provide me with some details about her life in the Philippines and what it was like to be a kid there. Side note: the ultimate project I would love to do is to create a visual and written documentary about my parents’ love life and relationship. They did long distance at some point (woof!), exchanged love letters and notes, and raised three stellar boys and put us through college. I believe in the power of storytelling and its ability to create community, vulnerability, and compassion. In my role as an educator, I sometimes forget that storytelling isn’t just about me sharing my story with my colleagues or with my students. It is also about learning from the stories and wisdom that came before me. It is about preserving the generations of stories that have so deeply influenced my personal values, ethics, perspectives, and behaviors. It is about transforming fairy tales and legends into a book of personal truths and revelations.

And so this next part of my blog is therefore a brief story about my mom, a story about her growing up in the Philippines before she came to the United States in the 70’s:

My mom grew up in the Philippines in a small town of Maasin. There was what they/she called “market day” that happened every Monday and her relatives from the barrio (or neighborhood/town) brought their produce from the farm to sell in the market. They had sold things like bananas, sweet potatoes, cassavas, coconuts, and all other kinds of vegetables: “I loved market day. I loved to go with my mom because I got a treat too like banana cue.”

She said it was a 2-hour trek to the town and most of the time they balanced the produce on their shoulders or sometimes on carts pulled by water buffaloes (called kalabaw or caribou). Fun fact: I actually had a chance to ride on top of a caribou when I visited the Philippines 6 years ago. See my old friend below.


Back to her story: Her mom, my lola (grandmother) had what she called, an “open door policy”, so her relatives and friends would stop by to have coffee or ginger tea to fill their stomachs. My lola would then go to the market extremely early in the morning to buy fish and vegetables. She would then make soup so everyone that stopped by can eat before they headed home. Now that I think about it, this is probably where I get my sense of giving, hosting, and community building, and definitely where my mom gets her love for being around her sisters, her nieces and nephews, and close family friends. It is apparent that in my family, and even in parts of my own life nowadays, we sometimes give more to others than we give to ourselves.

My mom goes on to say that they “were taught to respect [their] elders, to ask for blessings, to say please, thank you, [and] excuse me.” Respect in the Filipino culture is everything. It is not simply an act of doing, it is a way of being. From your kuyas and ates to your distant family friends — aka your cousins who aren’t really your cousins by blood, but you never really knew that until you got into high school — you show, give, share, and respond with respectful behaviors and attitudes. As one of the youngest kids in my family, I could never ride in the front seat of a car if my brothers or older cousins tagged along. I was always expected to pass out the dinner plates and utensils to my family members and guests during family gatherings. I was always told to do something, whether I wanted to or not, and most of the time if I was “good”, I would do it. That’s just how it is in Filipino culture. When you’re the bunso, or the youngest, you’re kind of at the bottom of the food chain. Let’s just say that with years of being at the bottom, I believe it taught me how to be more independent, how to deal and navigate through situations that weren’t particularly enjoyable, and how to advocate for myself and my needs. It has also taught me to be okay with failure and disappointment; to be okay with not being the best, but to be my best self; to be okay with not being the “hero” idolized in so many heteronormative television shows and books, but to realize that we all need saving in some way, at some point; to be okay with asking for help; to be okay with relying on the expertise and wisdom of one’s family and culture.


My elders are my Filipino giants. The ones whose footprints have left joy and success etched into the dirt of the rice terraces and whose shoulders carry the hopes and dreams of a stubborn and determined community. These are the giants who have turned their roots into veins, never forgetting that their history flows through their blood. They are my mom, my dad, my aunts and uncles, my lolas and lolos. They are the things of legends. The kind of legends that I will write in hard-covered books and read to my kids just before bed:

“Anak, what story would you like to hear tonight?

The tale of the brown star-crossed lovers destined for greatness, but separated by the Pacific Ocean?

Or the one about the Filipina mother of eight whose love and kindness also feeds an entire village?

How about the one with the social justice warrior prince? He who uses his words to slay the dragons of everyday racism and uses his emotions to move an entire country?”

“Dad… How about we read them all? Maybe I can write my own too.” 


In closing, my mom said this,”I had such a wonderful childhood full of unforgettable experiences. Babe, just correct my grammar. It’s past midnight and I’m sleepy…”

My mom is a one-of-a-kind individual, human, mother, and woman of color. She has demonstrated what it means to be resilient in order to persevere through challenges and high expectations, to be compassionate and respectful to yourself and to others, and to find the sweetness, the happiness, the fulfillment in every story, in every person, in every interaction.


I may not have the same exact stories or experiences that she did when growing up in Maasin, but I do have a similar feeling of being loved, of being surrounded by family, of being taught these values of respect and optimism, and of remembering my childhood as an enjoyable one. And for that, I am both privileged and humbled.


To close, here is a little haiku I wrote earlier this month. It is entitled, “Oh, I am brown.”

I am a product
Of brown love and excellence.
I know no limits.

Happy Filipino American History Month, everyone. I hope your October was as excellent and as beautiful as the culture and the people that I so deeply love and respect.




Dear #uvmhesa16: A letter from a friend.

Dear #uvmhesa16,

This is a letter to you all, my cohort: the fabulous 15* and the incredible 11. It is a recollection of the good, the ugly, and the better; an affirmation for each other and ourselves; and a call for continued action, reflection, and learning.

10659099_10152369967134211_3577835168481427568_o.jpg18 months later and we are all at such a crucial junction in our academic, professional, and personal journey. We are at a crossroads with our wants, needs, wishes, and goals. We are experiencing a transition from familiarity, comfort, and consistency towards perhaps, more uncertainty than we’d like at the moment. I intensely dislike goodbyes and see-you-laters, and I do not do well with things “ending”. I think it’s okay to fear, reject, or ignore its inevitability. And I also think we need to start recognizing, understanding, and accepting the ambiguous interlude for what it is, because let’s face it, the show must go on.


With that said, I truly and deeply hope this letter encourages you to take that leap of faith to become vulnerable with yourself and each other, and to say, do, and feel everything that comes with such unapologetic vulnerability. So here’s my nostalgic list of thoughts, memories, and feelings jumbled into a word cloud of personal truths.

I didn’t share aloud my cajita. The cajita was a reflective assignment that allowed us to use a box, or similar container-like object, to share and convey our identities, values, beliefs, and memories. It was a representation of who we were, are, and will be, and allowed us to reflect upon our experiences as aspiring student affairs professionals. And I vividly remember that day, where I was sitting, and what I was feeling. I remember choosing not to share my cajita, my meaningful object, my story. I learned two things from that day. The first: story-telling is a powerful way to build trust, vulnerability, and community. It is a beautiful way to develop group-rapport and self-empowerment. Secondly, I wasn’t emotionally ready to share. I was losing a friend, colleague, and confidant that evening and I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. In general, I just wasn’t ready. And despite being an ENFJ, I wasn’t ready for what the first five months of graduate school would do to me. I wasn’t as prepared as I thought I was. But more importantly, I learned that it was okay to be messy, to struggle here and there, and to not always have to perform at 150%, 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

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Two words: JAEs Place. Holiday parties, impromptu game nights, affinity spaces, group projects, and mimosas on the porch all happened at one common gathering area: Jeff and Eric’s Place. This apartment was more than just a “place”. It was a home, I believe, for the both of us, and even perhaps, for a few members of our cohort. It was a home that brought consistency and camaraderie into our lives. A place that nourished our hearts and minds (and stomachs), and rejuvenated our spirits for the next long, long, long day of HESA. Although one of us will be leaving this special place by the end of the month, the memories at JAEs Place will always remind us what a home should be, what a home can be, and who will always be family.


I wished I realized it sooner. I wished it didn’t take me so long to realize that I was projecting both my expectations and insecurities onto my peers. I recognized, rather late in the game, admittedly, that expecting perfection from myself was one thing, but expecting perfection from my peers was an unrealistic, exclusive, and oppressive expectation. I believed that graduate school was a time to “show up”, to bring one’s A-game both in and out of the classroom, and to go big or seriously, go home. I was frustrated by the lack of emotional intelligence exhibited by my peers. Ironically enough, it was not until my second semester of graduate school in which I was able to associate my intense feelings and reactions with having a very different kind of intelligence than I was used to hearing about. Additionally, I am embarrassed to admit that I operated under the notion that unlike undergrad, getting a Master’s degree was not a time for self-discovery and identity exploration.  Wow, was I wrong. Graduate school was a time to explore, discover, and actualize, but only if we took the opportunity to do so. Individually, we can make all the time and space needed to engage in some sort of identity work — we can even move mountains if we put our heart and soul into it. But collectively, we also needed each other. I needed my classmates to take the time, to allow the space, and to help move those big ass mountains with me, not for me. There is no perfect formula for graduate school. There’s no perfect recipe for success. And despite Master Yoda’s words of wisdom saying, “Do or do not. There is no try.”, I think all we can do is try. My cohort and I are in a galaxy far, far away from perfection, but hey, if we can try to bring out the best in ourselves and in each other, well, then I am a firm believer that there is a new hope — cue another sappy Star Wars reference, hehe.


There are perhaps two memories that for many of us, may be rather unsettling, but ones that I go back to often because of how pivotal they were for us as a cohort. Let me first setup the context. I think about Spring 2015, our second semester in HESA. This was going to be a long and cold winter, something that none of us, including the Vermonters and especially those damn Californians, had seen coming. It was the first time we had a full course load for the whole 13-15 weeks of the semester and not to mention, classes that were scheduled into the late evenings. None of us knew what we were getting ourselves into when it came to TVC Production Week or our HESA Interview Weekends. We pushed ourselves that semester to go above and beyond whatever we did in the fall. And we had two moments that simultaneously “broke us” and genuinely pushed us to become better than our very best.

The first: properly using American Psychological Association (APA) style writing in our papers and assignments. I think it is fair to say that we as a cohort wanted to become better writers. We wanted to be academics, to be scholars. We wanted to prove our self-worth that we could not only make it through graduate school, but we could do so successfully and brilliantly. And despite the fact that we were so empowered by this model of cogenerative learning, or cogen, we definitely needed some guidance. Although there may have been feelings of disappointment and embarrassment, and even some shed tears at the time, we needed that gentle reminder to become those better writers. It was the catalyst we needed to further our academic rapport and excellence. And I think it goes down as one of the most teachable moments in the history books for #uvmhesa16.

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The second, and probably still, the most controversial moment for us as a cohort: the discussion on affinity spaces and more specifically, affinity spaces for White students during “insert specific time and place at UVM”. I choose to be somewhat vague in this description because it could very well lead to another intense discussion that I frankly do not have the energy to entertain at the moment. Maybe another day.

As I think back to that day, I remember the anger, the tension, the tears, the confusion, the lack of appreciation and empathy, and the “wait-what-did-you-just-say” expressions on some of our faces. Oh, how we had struggled. In hindsight, it was a glorious moment. We became better educators that day. We learned that we were individuals who needed context, individuals who had questions with no answers, and individuals who were simply at various points on the social justice spectrum. If we reopen that discussion with just the 11 of us, I wonder where it would take us now. Food for thought.


Receiving the Building Bridges Award as a cohort (not everyone, however, is featured below). What a truly humbling honor and privilege to have been recognized as a community of builders during the ALANA Student Center Banquet. Thank you to our HESA faculty for nominating, recognizing, and believing in our awareness, knowledge, and skills to build community and honor family.

To my cohort, we did it together and I thank you all for each moment of kindness, compassion, and support that you so graciously sent my way. I know we will continue to build bridges, roads, sidewalks, and provide accessible forms of transportation (aka encouragement and support) to the community of students that we work with and serve. Wherever you all go next, remember that we may be these so-called builders, but even builders need their chosen family too. Take time to find, create, and nourish yours.

Every morning a new arrival…

Be grateful for whatever comes
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
– Rumi, The Guest House


In graduate school, I discovered what it truly meant to have community. A community of scholars practitioners, lovers and fighters, activists and reactionists, and friends and family. I am particularly grateful for the Asian Pacific Islander and Desi American (APIDA) community here at UVM and in Vermont. I honestly would not be just one-week away from graduation if I did not have each of you here. Thank you to Trina Tan for not only recruiting me to come here, but for telling me the truth about the challenges that come with being a person of Color at a predominantly White institution and being in one of the Whitest states in the country. More specifically, thank you to Jeffrey Tsang, Rose Del Vecchio, and Lian Boos. The patience, love, and laughter that you have gifted me throughout these last two years have allowed me to feel seen, heard, and validated. I am, and will always be, grateful for your presence and voice both in and out of the classroom. Thank you for letting me learn from you and lead with you.


Being in Vermont with chosen family and affinity has also helped me further recognize the multiple truths within community and community building. Having an APIDA community is not the same as having a community of Pilipina/o Americans. And too often, I found individuals here at UVM and within Vermont who assume that my Pilipino American narrative is the same as other Asian Americans. It is not. We share similar experiences, challenges, and cultural norms, but they are not synonymous or interchangeable for one another. Because of this, I am so grateful to have found a few members of the UVM community who live, breathe, and know what it means to be Pilipino American. Thank you to my UVM Pilipino community for helping me reconnect with a little piece of myself that at times, slipped away through the cracks. This particular community may be small, but it is powerfully loud in voice, spirit, and excellence. And I am honored to continue to build, shape, and share this community with you all some more.


So…  to my lovely cohort, the incredible 11, my forever classmates and colleagues, my final request for us is to remember that our journeys do not end here. We may be able to #checkthebox now, but we have so many other/new boxes, isms, privileges and systemic barriers that we have to check and address, especially now given our new privileges and forms of capitalism as educators with Master’s degrees. Do not forget who you are, where you come from, and where you hope to go.

The sky is the limit. And once you reach that limit, because I know each of you can and will, remember to look back at your travels and appreciate just how far you have come.

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Congratulations to you, to us, and to our unequivocally spirited #uvmhesa16 cohort. This may be the end of an era, but it is also the start of the next. And we are here to rewrite history. To celebrate herstory. And to share ourstory. We are changing the game, redefining what it means to be a student affairs professional, and creating space to allow kindness and vulnerability to guide our thoughts and actions. How truly powerful we are and how powerfully scary that is.


In closing, please, please, please enjoy these last few days or weeks with each other. Say thank you, put aside the baggage or take it with you and laugh with each other about it, and cherish every single creemee or sunset that we get with each other. Let us role model what vulnerability can look like outside of the classroom. Let us lead by example and show folks how to have fun. And more importantly, let us celebrate for making it through TWO YEARS of graduate school because, we did it.

Finally, don’t ever change … unless you’re already a social justice expert. *cue sarcasm*. Have a great summer. K.I.T. And may the spirit of APA be with you, always and forever.

Continue to be annoyingly amazing,
Eric G. Carnaje

Soon to be: Eric G. Carnaje, M.Ed.
UVM HESA Class of 2016



*includes the incredible 11 (Alex, Lian, Eric, Graham, Rose, Dan, Jo, Joey, Andrew, Atiya, Jeff) plus the lovely four members who will always be a part of this community of scholar practitioners: Kat, Katie, Catarina, and Liam.

Making My Own Love: A Critical Reflection on My Longterm Long Distance Relationship

Hi and welcome to my newest blogpost.

For those who do not know me, my name is Eric G. Carnaje and I am currently at the University of Vermont pursuing my Master’s degree in Higher Education and Student Affairs Administration. I am an ENFJ; an activist, scholar, and practitioner; a “Blue” in Leadership Colors; an artist and poet; a food enthusiast; Brown; queer; Pilipino American; a Strategic Achiever in Strengths Quest Themes; a California native; and so much more.

I am also in a longterm, long distance relationship with my partner Mark. He’s currently back in California and I’m here in Vermont. Say hi.


We started dating when we were in college (#gobears). He asked me out one evening and the following week we had our first date over movies and hotdogs. Yes, hot dogs. And well, we’ve been together for the past six years. Today, Saturday, February 13th, marks our anniversary. It is also the day before Valentine’s Day, and seeing that we won’t be with each other to celebrate this weekend, I thought I’d dedicate this post to him — to us.

Because of this “momentous occasion”, this post is a critical reflection on what I have experienced being in a longterm long distance relationship. And it’s about time I share what these kinds of relationships can be like. This is my opportunity to not only celebrate love and the man I love, but to also illuminate how queerness, graduate studies, student affairs, and racial identities play a role in this Asian American relationship.

Also, this was our 2nd Valentine’s Day together 5 years ago (see below).


Longterm long distance relationships  (LTLDRs) are an investment. They are also exhausting. Since working in higher education and student affairs, I like to equate these kinds of relationships to taking 4-6 academic credits. For some colleges and universities, that means you’re a part-time student. But trust me, there is nothing part-time about making long distance relationships work, especially when you’re a full time graduate student with a 20-hour assistantship (and additional co-curricular involvements and side hustles).

LTLDRs require time, energy, patience, and money. You figure out a routine and you stick with it: when to call in between classes, when to say goodnight, when it’s okay to FaceTime, when it’s appropriate to say good morning because of a 3-hour time difference. Even at the end of a long day of work, class, work, and more class, you still have to make time to check in with your partner. Luckily, Mark and I are at a point in our relationship where we can go several hours without texting or calling each other. Despite being across the country from one another, we don’t need to be in each other’s lives every single hour of the day. At the same time, constant and reliable communication is essential to making the relationship work. We’re very much our own people and each other all at the same time. You’re constantly thinking and reflecting upon your own actions and decisions because they not only impact you, but your partner as well. For example, as I finish my graduate work and figure out my job search, I am not only thinking about my future, but our future as well. You also pick up on mannerisms, personality traits, perspectives, and thought processes. Sometimes I find myself serving up some Jean Grey during our late night conversations. Communication doesn’t have to be verbal or visual. Communication can also be quality time spent in silence.

Now, if there was a way to make LTLDRs more affordable and cost-efficient, someone please tell me the secret ASAP. When I think about my own relationship and analyze it, there’s definitely notions of class privilege that come up. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s simply something to be cognizant of (for yourself and when around others). With one of us being in Vermont and the other in California, we have to make smart financial decisions to see each other. Obviously, flights are not cheap. Trips can cost anywhere between $400-$600 when you’re flying across the country. And let’s be real, when you’re a graduate student with loans, bills, and expensive tastes, those flights make a huge dent in the savings account. You wait three to four months just so you can spend three to four days with your partner. Those are the days that matter most. The ones that get you through your graduate program. Although I do not currently have the luxury of going out on Friday night dinner dates or waking up early for Sunday morning hikes with my partner, I know it will happen someday. Hopefully sooner rather than later. And hopefully this LTLDR will be just me and him without 3000 miles in between.


I think what also has been helpful over the last few years is the continuous and unconditional support from our friends and family members. The love that these individuals have shown Mark and I is indescribable. From cousins to colleagues, their words of encouragement, affirmation, and inclusion, allows us to be our best selves. Growing up, I had no idea what a queer relationship looked like, let alone what a queer Asian American relationship looked like. In college, we had the opportunity to define that for ourselves. Sure, it meant keeping things initially on the “downlow” from our friends and family, and knowing when and where it was appropriate to show some affection when in public. But as our relationship and friendship grew, so did our understanding of it. Even today, where is the representation of queer Asian American (Pacific Islander and Desi American) couples in the media, television shows, movies? Who can our kids look up to? Where can they find people who act, think, look, and love the way they/we do? If there’s nobody around our future generations to role model these kinds of relationships, we have to start creating, highlighting, role modeling, and loving them ourselves. Defining what our relationship looked and felt like to us was probably the most empowering and rewarding thing that could have happened. And having the support from our loved ones has helped us make it this far. It is my hope to share this love story, proudly and queerly, with the rest of my Asian American community. To instill hope and redefine love. To say thank you. 

To be honest, it has taken me some time to become comfortable with how public my relationship with Mark is. We’re not “Facebook Official”. My extended family barely met him a year or two ago; he’s going next year to our annual Christmas party because it’s “time”. From the stereotypes to the stigma, from insecurities and unwanted glances, I have heavily worn all of these feelings and experiences on the back of my shoulders. But I think after six years of love and fighting, I am capable of anything and everything. We are capable of this, that, from the f*cking moon and back. This kind of love is political, dynamic, revolutionary, and whole. This is radical love.

Throughout these six years, I have gotten to know both my partner and my own soul. I know what kind of love languages he speaks and I know what kind of driver he is (one with road rage). I know what stresses him out at night and what helps him sleep. And at the same time, I know more about myself than I realized. All thanks to him. He taught me what love and commitment looks like, what openness and vulnerability feels like, and what sinigang fried chicken tastes like.

As the saying goes, “sometimes you just have to make your own luck.” Well, for me, it’s not just about luck; sometimes I simply have to make my own love as well. And I have. I have made it. So there he is: my boyfriend, my partner, my novio, my soulmate, and my best friend. This is my story. This is our love. And this is not the end.


#brown: why my skin color is more than just a color

For years, I’ve struggled with my brownness. In high school, playing tennis after school led to some pretty serious tans, both on the arms and around the socks. I was brown, very brown. I even used to say I was “golden-colored”. I loved playing tennis and I found a sport that I was actually good, maybe even great at. And I was teased constantly because of how dark I became after spending several hours playing under the California sun. I would ask myself, “Why is everybody baggin’ on me for actually doing something that I enjoyed? Being dark just shows how committed I am to the sport, right?” Still today, I hear people occasionally say “tennis dark” to reference my past skin color and it just never sits right with me.

While in high school, I would have to deal with comments and remarks from close family members and friends about how dark I was and how brown I looked. Sometimes, upon first entering a room, I would get comments about being so brown and so tanned rather than receiving a simple “hello”. Back then, I never knew about microaggressions and how emotionally damaging and psychologically taxing these racial slurs were on people of color like myself. And without any guidance or mentors to help me through these feelings, I felt lost, isolated, and different — I mean, really, how many people of color were playing tennis professionally at the time (not to mention the culture of high school masculinity back then)?

When I got to college, I began to embrace my identity as a Pilipino American and the various shades of brown that I was exposed to. Joining the Pilipino Academic Student Services and the bridges multicultural community was an absolute blessing and formative experience throughout my undergraduate career — you can read more about my involvements with these here. Since coming to graduate school and readily working my way to becoming an awesome educator and student affairs professional, I am empowered by the beauty of my own skin: the way the black ink from my tattoos permanently settles onto my body, the physical sensation of being sun-kissed by Mother Nature herself. However, just because I am empowered and see value in my own skin color does not make it any easier being a person of color in the state of Vermont. It is still a struggle. It is still an uphill battle. It is still exhausting.

And so, with each opportunity I get, I try and remind myself how beautiful the color of my skin truly is. After starting my television series binge with Empire and after reading “Why are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?” by Beverly Daniel Tatum, I am also reminded of the power and responsibility that comes with talking to our children about race & racism. I wished somebody had told me early on that brown was (and still is) beautiful. That brown could be a medium for self-expression, resistance, and activism. That the color of my skin could put me in harm’s way, make me feel vulnerable and unwanted at times. That the way I look and feel & act in this world would be watched and criticized by my White counterparts. That this brown color came with its own set of Pilipino culture, history, & responsibility to be a catalyst for radical change & radical love.

Brown is undeniably beautiful. And I tell myself that every single day. But it’s not the “me’s” that I’m currently worried about. It’s the people who are put in positions of privilege and responsibility who take advantage of my community and the law. It’s those same individuals who have the power, influence, and authority to mistreat the underrepresented. I am afraid of the unfortunate possibility (and for some, reality) that our younger children come into this world thinking White is the norm, White means success, White means beauty. I’m worried that we’re not telling our children (enough) that the brown and black colors of their skin are just as beautiful, just as powerful, and just as meaningful. So when I have kids I will tell them to always be aware, alert, and ready, for being a person of color in today’s society still comes with its fair share of challenges, hateful actions and racial slurs, and “golden-colored” microaggressions. But I will also let them know that their brownness embodies various forms of beauty, culture, life, love, history, passion, and the power to truly make the world a kinder tomorrow.

Brown is more than just the color of my skin. It is who I am, what I choose to fight for, where I decide to live and be freely, when I speak up and stay silent, why I care so much about my own self worth and the beauty of others, and it dictates how exactly I choose to live my life the best way that I can. This is why my skin color matters.