I was born into three worlds that, at first glance, seem worlds apart: Liberia, Rhode Island, and the Midwest. If you had told the young boy running through the streets of Providence that one day I'd raise a family in Minnesota, I would have laughed. Yet, here I am—a living testament that identity isn’t defined by where you're from, but by where life leads you and how you make sense of the places that shape you.
Growing Up in Providence was where I first learned what it meant to be Black, but it was never a simple lesson. My father, a proud Liberian immigrant, carried the essence of Liberia in his every word and expectation. My mother, an African American woman with little formal education, gave me the resilience to navigate a world that didn’t always make space for me. From them, I inherited two versions of Blackness-one rooted in African tradition, the other forged by the struggles and triumphs of being Black in America.
Rhode Island, a small place, seemed to have small definitions of identity. The Liberian community there was tight-knit but few in number, so I often found myself explaining who I was; why my name sounded different, why my dad had an accent, and why I didn’t fit into the boxes people tried to put me in. In that discomfort, I found strength. My experience was unique, teaching me how to exist in multiple spaces at once.
One of my favorite memories is that my birthday fell the day before Liberia’s Independence Day. When I stayed with my dad, I felt like I got two birthday celebrations-one for me, and one the next day, filled with Liberian pride. It connected me to something larger than my own milestones, reminding me that I was part of a bigger picture.
Connection to Liberia
Liberia was always a part of my upbringing, even from afar. I knew it through my father’s stories, my stepmother’s jollof rice and fufu, and the blend of English and Liberian dialects spoken around me.
Though I never visited, Liberia felt both familiar and distant. It was a place where my name made sense, where I wouldn't have to explain myself to teachers. Still, I was an insider by blood, but an outsider by experience.
When my dad traveled back to Liberia, my parents told me he was just going to McDonald's to get me French fries so I wouldn’t miss him. I believed it, imagining him returning with a bag of fries just for me. Now, I understand it was their way of making his absence feel smaller.
Even so, knowing I had roots somewhere deep and undeniable grounded me. No matter how out of place I felt in the U.S., I carried something bigger than myself, something that made me more than just a kid navigating two cultures.
Life in Minnesota
Moving to Minnesota brought an entirely new shift. The Midwest isn’t like the East Coast, and it’s certainly nothing like Liberia. It’s quiet, spacious, and polite in ways I didn’t expect. But as I raise my kids here, I see a new side of Blackness, one less about surviving and more about building.
Here, I’m not just the kid from Providence or the son of a Liberian immigrant; I’m a father, a husband, and a leader in my community. Watching my children grow has made me think about how they’ll navigate their own identities. As a mixed-race family, will they experience the same tensions I did, straddling multiple cultures and backgrounds? Or will Minnesota offer them a sense of belonging that feels like home in ways I never quite found in Rhode Island? Perhaps, in its own way, the Midwest offers a stability neither Providence nor Liberia could. I’m proud to help them build their own identity-one that draws strength from every part of who they are.
Wrestling with Belonging
My identity has been shaped by the hustle of the East Coast, the deep history of Liberia, and the space to breathe and reflect in the Midwest. Each place has left its mark, layering experiences that, at times, seem contradictory but are simply different facets of the same story.
Geography influences how we see ourselves, but it doesn’t define us completely. I carry the urgency of the East Coast, the resilience of Liberia, and the calm of the Midwest, all at once. And maybe that’s the lesson—home isn’t about choosing one place over another. It’s about embracing the evolution of identity, shaped by every street we walk, every language we speak, and every community we create.
So, what does it mean to be from three places at once? It means constant translation, constant adaptation, and constant growth. It means realizing that home isn’t a single place, it’s a feeling, a history, and a connection that follows you wherever you go.
And perhaps that’s the real answer. Home isn’t just one place. It’s all of them, shaping and reshaping who I am every day.
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