I was born in Panama, as were my parents, my brother, and every other living relative I am aware of. I only lived there for two years before the four of us moved to Houston, but I was raised on stories about the beaches and rivers, mountains and forests, pueblos and cities. My parents’ stories filled me with a certain wonder and longing for nature and community that I’m glad has followed me to this point. Then came the reverence. My father, a preacher, would speak about the Earth’s natural beauty as being a gift from God, about the honor of land stewardship that God bestowed upon us. Throughout my childhood I imagined Panama as a land of milk and honey, and for many years I resented my parents for denying me that. I still miss Panama as an idea. It is a longing that pushed me to start spending more time outdoors.

I do not consider myself American, even after becoming a citizen at twenty. That is not how I was raised, and as a Black person the thought of calling myself an American feels insulting and dishonest. Still, I love being Black, even as I recognize that I never had an option, that Black is a position you are relegated to. My love of Blackness and Black people put my parents’ stories into context. It helped me understand the importance of land as maroon village, as cotton field, as Black-owned farm. It helped me see the land itself as an ancestor, a healer, and a teacher. I am still trying to build a stronger relationship between myself and the ground I walk on, and I believe that is the best way to honor my kin across time and space, the best way for me to shape and define myself.