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Photo by Patrick Perkins on Unsplash

I had the honor of having two parents, though divorced, who practiced their own form of positive racial socialization. A quick definition, positive racial socialization involves exposing children to adults, messages, and symbols that communicate positive regard, pride for, and identification with one’s racial group.

For me, this socialization took place in the interactions I had with my mother and father. It was evident in the books she read and bought us, the music we listened to, events attended, and our toys. It was my mother who made us watch Roots, who taught us about our Native American and African heritage, and who exposed us to historical Black figures. Our father would sit down with us as children and teach us “the lessons”. …


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Photo by Mike Erskine on Unsplash

I, like everyone or at least most people in the United States, seem to catch the latest updates on COVID-19 while parenting, working from home. The timeline is quite blurred, but I remember the feeling of urgency and anxiousness taking place as we moved closer and further into March. My job, a center located in a university, began to receive email updates after updates informing us of new cases, and the need to move our work to remote and home environments.

My work in the center necessitates I remain a member of professional organizations, and, for me, those organizations include those for psychologists. …


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Photo by Paweł Czerwiński on Unsplash

The challenges associated with my ability to remember events, moments, and words with accuracy is quite real. I wonder in ten years, what will this mean for me when I transition into my mid-50s where there is the likelihood of early dementia developing. I hear there is a relationship between brain injury early in life and the onset of dementia and Alzheimer’s in later life.

I have had my share of head injuries — most inflicted by human hands and a few by accidents. I remember when my mother slammed my head so hard against the wall that it left a permanent hole. As a child, the hole remained for awhile in the off-white paint that decorated our walls in the black and white house. I remember an attempt to jump rope at the age of 5 or 6 led to me tripping myself on the cord and falling headfirst into the concrete sidewalk. I remember, at the age of 10 or 11 maybe, my mother accusing me of stealing her laundromat money and deciding to jump on me, banging my head into the wooden floor. I remember the car accident at 13, the slight turn of my head and then blackness. …

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