When Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder released the song “Ebony and Ivory” in 1982, I was a 10-year-old, racially mixed fifth-grader obsessed with music. I had grown up listening to both Stevie Wonder and The Beatles, and the song’s simple message of racial unity, which my family had ingrained in me since birth, resonated with me. I knew that racial inequities existed — I heard firsthand stories and I watched TV — but now, two of my heroes were evangelizing a message that I’d always believed. They convinced me that racial equality was finally on its way, and I couldn’t wait; not because my life was hard, but because I knew that everyone wasn’t as fortunate as I was.

In November 2006, my band was in the midst of a European tour. Though we loved exploring unfamiliar cities, we ached for the comforts of home as the holidays approached. None of us were from the same place—we were born in cities spreading from New York to Anchorage, but we shared an understanding of what the holidays meant to us: a jovial Santa Claus; a fragrant, decorated tree and lots of food.

Tony and I had fantastic afros as children. They weren’t the perfect, tight globes, like the ones that sat atop the confident students who populated Umass’s African Studies building, near where we grew up. Ours were lighter in color and looser in curl.