When I was a kid growing up, we never dreamed of a white Christmas.

Snow maybe, but a white Christmas?

Nah.

In our house, Christmas was black.

The Temptations Christmas album played on repeat, and Santa Claus was definitely a black

Christmas.

And on Christmas morning, my mother filled my head and my hands with an endless stream

of positive black images.

My gifts were books by black authors, and aside from my collection of dios, the imaginary

world that I inhabited was one where black folks, like us were heroes.

And sometimes villains, but either way, they were black.

Now that I'm a parent, I can understand how much effort my mom went through, just to

make sure that we could see ourselves.

I know I'm probably preaching to the choir here, but raising a black child in America isn't

easy.

From a very early age, our kids are bombarded with conflicting messages about who they are

and who they are not.

My girls are not often seen as royalty and fairy tales, and black boys are not usually

the ones given superpowers.

From children's books to cartoons, to the worlds of fantasy and make believe, for so long,

we were sideline or unseen.

Now I know things have changed since I was a kid.

...