Daughter of a single mother is an identity that I have claimed proudly, and also with resentment and contempt.
When I found a lump in my breast several years ago, I couldn’t bear to tell my mother.
“How come you have black mother?” an inquisitive young boy asked me. We were four, playing at a park near my childhood Chicago home. I stared at him blankly but never responded – I had no idea what he meant.
Following my termination, I was faced with explaining to my girls that it was going to be hard for us for awhile, but we had each other and we would stay strong.