in HER words
Hillside High School with neighborhood kids.
Finding Home With My Father BY TIAN N A SPEARS
W
hat is home? Where is the place that you feel the most alive, understood and loved? Who introduced you to this place? Is it a physical location, a person, a feeling? “Tianna, would you like to come with me to homecoming in Durham, North Carolina?” my dad, H. Michael Spears, asked as we sat on the couch in our living room, squeezed between my mom and brother, in Groton, Connecticut. “What is homecoming?” I asked him, not impressed. “It sounds boring.” “You know how I graduated from North Carolina Central University?” he asked. “Homecoming is a big celebration with all my friends and family in Durham. You probably don’t remember, but you came with me to homecoming when you were a baby. There’s a parade, football game, lots of food, and you can make new friends. It will be fun!” I thought homecoming was full of old ladies pinching my cheeks and calling me “baby.” My parents raised me to be vocal about my opinion, so I repeated this to my dad, and he laughed. We arrived in Durham after a 10-hour car ride. My dad talked about his life, sharing stories about his childhood in the Bull City. We listened to 107.1 FM radio station, which played old-school R&B songs that I would soon associate with my own childhood. I spent that weekend in October 1999 playing in my grandparents’ front yard behind
O RI G I N A L LY FR OM LO S A N G E L E S,
T H E AUT H O R WAS
RA I S E D I N D U R HAM. S H E H A S WRI TTEN F O R A M E R ICA N DIPLO M ACY ,
LO S A NGE L E S
T IM E S, M ATA DOR N E T WO RK A ND PO L IT ICO, A N D
WA S F E AT URED O N A B C N E WS,
B US I N E S S I N SI DER , C N N , N P R, P RI ’ S
T H E WO RL D A ND
I N T H E NE W YO R K T IM E S. T I A N NA I S
T H E F O UN D E R OF A STO RY T E L L I NG CO L L E CT I V E
WE B S I T E CA L LED
T I A N N A’ S C RE ATI VE A N D C RE ATO R OF
T H E B LO G “ WHAT’ S UP WI T H T I A N NA.”
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The house was decorated with art by Durham artist Ernie Barnes. I was introduced to my dad’s friends and family members. We ate barbecue chicken, fried fish, collard greens, mac ’n cheese and cornbread – what my community calls soul food. My grandmother made a breakfast food called grits, and my older cousin taught me to add cheese, bacon and butter. It was delicious. I couldn’t quite put into words what I was feeling as a child. I was surrounded by different shades of Blackness, a warm, comfortable feeling that was authentic. I met Black business owners, lawyers and women who said exactly what they thought as they thought it. The women had curly hair just like I did! My grandma smacked away my hand when I reached for food in the kitchen. There was laughter, a weekend reunion of people who hadn’t seen one another in years, cookouts and “The Electric Slide.” “I haven’t seen you since you were a baby!” women would say, pinching my cheeks and leaving traces of perfume and hints of red lipstick stains on my face. My dad and I stood at the corner of Fayetteville Street and East Pilot Street, next to The Chicken Hut, as the parade approached. There was the drum line, step team, dance team, organizations displaying signs to support different causes. Cars full of smiling people, waving, throwing candy into the crowd, and music that made you move from side to side. During halftime at the N.C. Central vs. Livingstone College football game at O’KellyRiddick Stadium that afternoon, the announcer screamed, “North Carolina! Put your hands up!” N.C. Central’s marching band, the Sound Machine, took over the field. I was in awe, watching the majorettes dance and the drum line play along in their gray and maroon uniforms. My family moved to Durham two years later. I started school at Fayetteville Street Elementary School, a few steps from where my dad and I watched the parade. Thanks