I spent many Sundays at church growing up—a church alive with singers, tambourine shakers, and preachers that shook walls. It was a church filled with tongue speakers, mothers, and teachers. My grandmother brought me there to shield me from the streets, to save me from influences that might corrupt my mind and lead me astray. It was a place meant to keep me guided by the fear of an unseen eye, especially when no one else was watching. I know she did it because was where I came from.

I lived in an apartment in Mississauga as a child. It was an apartment doused in white paint but dulled and scarred over the years. In many ways that apartment represented the community it served—a community that was neglected and disrespected, typecast and pushed aside. But it was there I learned valuable lessons that began molding my disposition, identity, and ideas. At an early age, I feel it showed me the nuances of Blackness.

It was at that apartment where I got my earliest lessons on how to navigate and move. I learned through observation, instruction, and tests. I observed my mom’s tilted head as she walked to see what’s happening in front and behind. She taught my brother and I who to acknowledge, what paths to avoid, and cues on the street. She tested us on how to get home from distant locations by memorizing routes, addresses, and phone numbers in preparation for the worst. It became clear that our world required a heightened sense of awareness and an impenetrable guard, and so my Blackness was shaped in response.

She instilled a doctrine in us to protect and defend. My brother’s fight was my fight. If someone hit me, I hit them harder. We went everywhere with each other. These were lessons born from necessity because she knew we’d be tested—by bullies or strangers. So, we avoided conflict, but if we fought, we fought to win. We still argued with each other plenty. We still shared moments of dislike and silence after brawls. But her words shaped our bond because I knew I was never alone. It showed me we were stronger together; I didn’t have to struggle on my own.

It was at this apartment where I had my first experience of being Black and policed. One day, as we walked home through the plaza, I felt my mother’s hand tighten on mine.

“Just keep walking,” she whispered, her pace quickening.

Behind us, two police officers called out, asking her to stop. “We just want to talk,” they said, their voices gaining an edge as we kept moving.

A crowd began to gather near the bus terminal, their voices rising in protest. “Leave her alone!” someone yelled. Still, the officers grabbed her, twisting her arms behind her back. My brother and I were pulled aside by a neighbour as we watched helplessly, our small hands clinging to hers until they forced us apart. They cuffed her, questioned her—asking where she was from and who she knew. When her answers didn’t match whatever they were looking for, they let her go, frustration clear in their movements.

I remember her face as she walked back to us: a mix of anger, fear, and defiance, her hand shaking as she reached for ours again. I walked away realizing we were stereotyped because of race—something we couldn’t change. And despite loving my the darkness of my skin, it was something others villainized and feared.

It was there, at that apartment where my fashion was cultivated and my empathy for people demonized began to take form. I recall on Saturday’s we’d embark on journeys, often to the barbershop or salon. With no vehicle we relied on buses that ran infrequently, turning what should have been only a few hours into full day trips. Our day started early with outfits that my mom curated and laid out the night before. We’d hit the streets with speed to the bus terminal at the plaza, my mom’s gold bangles jangling, the chains of my brother and I bouncing as we raced across the street.

We’d see corner boys along the way leaned against walls, their loose jeans cuffed with heavy chains that would pendulum as they’d walk. They’d smooth talk to the women that passed by. Their flamboyance caught eyes. They moved with a confidence I couldn’t help but admire. I remember catching glimpses of their laughter as we hurried past, imagining how it felt to move so freely. To me, they were fly. But my mother saw through my fascination and would scold us with concern.

“You see that? I don’t ever want to see you on the block at that age. The only place I want to find you in is the library.”

Her warnings felt uncalled for and unfair. She never explained what we were encountering, but she scolded us as if we were the ones on the corner. It wasn’t until I grew older that I understood—she knew where that path led, and the cost was too great.

We knew people in these lifestyles that counselled us the same. Some argued that they ended up there because they had no choice, so they adapted to survive. They counselled that for us, that wasn’t the case. They’d tell us to ignore their examples and surround ourselves with aspirational and moral friends.

Given that reality set before us, there came the push to be more than what the environment would make of us and what society forecasted us to be. But I learned the influences of your environment can shape your disposition and control your life. And so, it became clear why my grandma sought to occupy our idle time with church and save our souls.

Today, that apartment still exists. And despite being mired, neglected, and cast aside, for me it symbolizes the beauty, community, and resilience in Blackness.

Now I look back on that time and that apartment and I smile with pride. But there was a time when I suppressed my past as I grew because the people around me couldn’t relate. They feared my people because of how we looked and dressed. They classed us as ghetto because of our homes, communities, and speech. But all of that made me.