Tag: Civil Rights Act of 1964

As the daughter of immigrants, I live between two worlds. One is shaped by my clumsy Vietnamese tongue, my mother’s pho, and the aching trauma and grief borne by a country I have never visited. The other is foreign to my parents: My rapid English passes by their ears, and my attitude toward failure is a privilege they never dared possess.

I was born almost a decade beyond the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, and although some things had changed, many were still stuck in the past. My small town in rural Arkansas was isolated in many ways, including lacking much diversity of any kind.

Some of this hatred, I think, is in response to this philosophical idea of lack, this idea that there are not enough rights, there’s not enough justice. There’s not enough love, not enough healthcare, not enough food. And if some other people get it, we’re not going to get it. But there is enough. There is plenty.

Matters involving race have influenced the trajectory of my life and career. It’s been an extraordinary privilege to work for nearly two decades with Andrew Young, the civil rights leader and politician, who often points out the great amount of change that has been achieved, especially here.

The civil rights movement instilled within me a profound sense of empowerment, igniting a flame of courage and conviction within my soul. Through the struggles and sacrifices of courageous individuals, barriers were shattered, and doors of opportunity swung open. Growing up in the aftermath of this movement, I understood that my identity was not a limitation but a source of strength. The movement’s legacy of fighting for equality and justice empowered me to embrace my true self, to express my beliefs, and to stand tall in the face of adversity.

I grew up as a Northern Black during the 1960s, with the insight of a Southern Black. That’s because my parents were children of the Great Migration of the 1940s. While Dad’s family came to South Bend, Indiana, from Dell, Arkansas, Mom’s folks traveled to that same city from Palestine, Mississippi. My maternal great-grandfather was around often. Before he died in 1964 at 111, as the oldest person in the United States, he told us about his time as a water boy during the Civil War.

I grew up steeped in Atlanta’s civil rights movement. I remember singing “We Shall Overcome” at the King Center before I could fully speak English. The activism Atlanta instilled in me since childhood sparked a blaze when I began transitioning into adulthood, and the system began transitioning me into a state of “illegality.”