Juneteenth in Real Life

19 Years of Raising Black & Multiracial Children in a System That Wasn’t Built for Us

Juneteenth is not just a day on the calendar. It is the echo of freedom long delayed, the resilience of generations, and a reminder that liberty isn’t just declared—it must be defended, reclaimed, and rebuilt every day.

For me, Juneteenth lives in the lived experience of raising Black and multiracial children over the last 19 years—as a multiracial single mother in America. It’s found in the gaps of policies that weren’t designed with us in mind. It lives in the cold, tiled floors of county offices, the judgments of school administrators, the invisible rules of systems that say, “You don’t belong here.” And yet, we rise.

My Story Is Also a System Story

At 18, I became a mother. Not just to a baby—but to a reality. One where my race, my gender, and my motherhood intersected with poverty and policy. I entered the welfare system for support, not survival. But I quickly realized the system wasn’t structured to support women like me—it was built to manage us.

Nearly 90% of single-parent households in the U.S. are led by women, and Black and multiracial mothers are among the most likely to live in poverty. According to the National Women’s Law Center, 1 in 4 Black children live below the poverty line. These aren’t just numbers—they’re real-life roadblocks with names, faces, and futures.

I’ve sat in WIC offices with babies on my hip, explaining that I am working—but minimum wage doesn’t stretch far when rent is due, when school shoes are needed, when the price of gas feels like punishment. I’ve applied for housing assistance and food stamps while pursuing degrees and better jobs, only to find “benefit cliffs” that punished every step forward.

Education: A Battlefield in Itself

The schools weren’t safe either. My children’s identities were questioned, erased, or punished. I was called “combative” when I advocated. I was told to “trust the system” when the system had already failed us.

Black students are 3.8 times more likely to be suspended than white students—even in preschool. My sons were brilliant—but they were labeled early, watched closely, and given fewer second chances.

So, I became their first teacher, their loudest advocate, their cultural historian. I taught them what Juneteenth really meant—not just freedom from slavery, but freedom to become, in a country still working to reconcile its past.

Barriers Built into Policy

Across every system—welfare, education, healthcare, employment—I watched how white-centered policies create barriers for families of color:

• Welfare-to-work programs often fail single mothers by offering no childcare, transportation, or flexibility.

• Education policies ignore culturally responsive curriculum and punish “non-traditional” family involvement.

• Housing assistance requires work history or credit scores that don’t reflect systemic employment discrimination.

• Healthcare systems too often overlook Black women’s pain and delay diagnoses.

• Employment policies value degrees over lived experience, silence identity, and enforce professionalism as whiteness.

These aren’t broken systems—they are functioning exactly as they were designed: to maintain inequity, not dismantle it.

From Struggle to Strategy

The past 19 years weren’t just a fight for survival—they were a strategy for liberation. I didn’t just raise children—I raised leaders. I didn’t just navigate systems—I questioned them, challenged them, rewrote them.

And I learned:

• Freedom is a mindset long before it becomes a reality.

• Motherhood is a revolutionary act when done with intention in the face of adversity.

• Policy is not neutral. Every practice, every guideline, every budget line either includes us—or erases us.

• You don’t have to be invited to make change. You create it by refusing to settle for the systems we inherited.

What Juneteenth Means to Me Now

Juneteenth is more than a historical milestone—it’s my story in motion.

It’s:

• The moment I walked into a county office and refused to be shamed for asking for help.

• The moment I challenged a principal and got a discipline policy changed.

• The moment I started a nonprofit program to serve families like mine.

• The moment my son walked across the stage, diploma in hand, proving statistics wrong.

Juneteenth is watching my children grow up with pride in who they are and a clear sense of where they come from.

It is knowing that while we were never meant to succeed in this system, we are thriving in spite of it—and because of each other.

We Are the Continuation of Liberation

To the other mothers, caregivers, and leaders walking this path: You are the continuation of Juneteenth.

Every time you advocate, every time you challenge injustice, every time you pour into your children, you are carrying the torch of freedom. This work isn’t about perfection—it’s about persistence. It’s about reclaiming our place in a world that too often tries to erase us.

I am no longer just surviving the system. I am reshaping it. For my family. For my community. For the next generation of mothers who will never have to question their power.

Because Juneteenth didn’t end with the Emancipation Proclamation. It lives on—in our voices, our fight, and our freedom.

And I’ll keep showing up. Because freedom delayed is not freedom denied.