A stranger grabbed me as I exited the elevator.
“Hey there, Black Jew!”
We embraced as if we were long lost friends. As I gazed at her, I thought I was looking in the mirror. Her presence was the last thing I expected to discover when I attended my first International Jewish Convention. Excluding my family, she was the first black Jew that I ever met — a unicorn.
“What’s up, fellow Black Jew?” I said with a smile. “What’s your name?”
“Kaela,” her words racing against the closing elevator door.
I shouted back, “I’m Nia.”
Nia is the Swahili word for purpose. My father, who is African American, and my mother, who is biracial and Jewish, could never define that purpose; it was always mine to discover. Thanks to my diverse identity, combined with a unique ability to form connections, my purpose has centered around helping others and becoming an educator. This mission started with my family. I still have the desk in my bedroom where I used to play school with my sister when I was 4. Imani is my older sister, yet, I was always the teacher. I gave her assignments — coloring sheets — and graded her.
A year later, a new student came into my life. My younger brother, Darius, was born. I spent nearly every waking moment with him. I loved teaching him to hit piano keys and solve puzzles. When my brother outgrew me as his teacher, I started babysitting and quickly learned that dinosaurs would never bore me, due to their ability to help kids learn.
Growing up in Fort Collins, I have always felt that my family and I were different from our peers. On the surface, our uniqueness was obvious as the only African-American family in our neighborhood. Culturally, it was another story. Practicing Judaism meant I had differences that were only exposed when my friends questioned what church I attended. However, I never realized how different I was within the communities to which I naturally belonged.
My parents exposed my siblings and me to both Jewish and Black affinity groups. Every Sunday, we attended Hebrew School, and once a month, we attended a mentoring group for Black students in Northern Colorado (GPS). I recall one December when I attended GPS, we talked about our holiday traditions. My sister and I were the only ones to talk about eating latkes and lighting candles for Hanukkah. I had always felt like I belonged with my Black friends, but that day I did not.
The reverse came to light a few years later when I started attending a Jewish summer camp in the beautiful Mount Evans Wilderness. Initially, I was terrified. This was my first time away from home. I experienced the same feeling of uneasiness I did that December at GPS. Despite having attended Hebrew school “religiously” for years, my ethnic differences were pronounced in an environment meant to foster support for Jewish children. As I looked around, I saw no faces of color. Yet, I was astonished at how all of my cabinmates’ had similar experiences of being one of the few Jewish people in their school. I related to them with both my identities, which allowed me to build everlasting relationships.
Through helping others, I have successfully merged my two communities. I volunteer as a teacher at my synagogue, at my local Boys and Girls Club and at programs designed for minorities in STEM. I provide a unique perspective as an African-American Jewish girl. I am able to form connections with students based on our hobbies, religions, or ethnicities. It is my identity that has helped me relate to multiple peoples’ cultures and struggles. I am beginning to find my Nia, my purpose, by helping people understand where they belong and making connections so that they feel the way I did when I met Kaela.
Nia McGregor, a graduate of Fossil Ridge High School, in Fort Collins, Colorado, is a freshman at Brown University.
The room descended into absolute madness. While the conversation was supposed to be about the ethical issues that plague D1 college athletics, everyone around me was yelling about who was the best basketball player in the country. Glancing around the noisy classroom, there was one obvious difference between me and my peers: I was the only girl.
As a young black woman, I discovered my strength as an artist in a home of old white people. I came to Brookdale Senior Center with my sketchbook to share an intimate part of myself — my art — with strangers. In return, they shared themselves with me. I never imagined this exchange would happen here, not in what I once considered to be my Southern hell. The dissonance I perceived between white and black seemingly evaporated in the moment. People were just people. However this revelation did not come in an instance. Rather, it began its maturation from that moment six years ago when I laid on the floor, crying. Wailing as though I lost my whole world.
I take a bite into my burger, and India, my younger sister, spits at me and starts loudly cursing, attracting an audience of stares in the restaurant.