Many times when Natasha stepped off the Passing Cloud boat onto foreign terrain, she felt that she might be making history as the first Black person to explore and forage the land.

By grade 9, I had dipped my hand in many Injera dishes and stuffed my stomach with succulent Tibs from several Ethiopian restaurants across the Danforth. The smell of Bu’na brewing and coffee beans roasting became embedded in my senses.

After less than 30 years ago, millions continue their lives displaced with no trace of relatives. Murderers, families of murderers, and brokenness surrounding one another every day.

Two military cars drove up to where we were. The cars were filled with men pointing their guns. Other male officers and bystanders made a circle around me. My heart was racing, and rage was overcoming my mind. I could feel my eyes turning bloodshot red as I screamed.

I struggled immensely. Every step felt like an enormous effort of life. I was crying and thinking; I can't give up now, I have to make it to the top. When I looked ahead, I saw Hannah, gliding her way through.

If we could build that at 12-years old, we could create anything...if we put our minds to it. This was a testimony wrapped in a school assignment. We were learning the importance of investing in ourselves, with popsicle sticks and glue.

What was happening to me was a disruption from the pretentious life I was living. Pretending that I had other passions, and all the business ventures I took on was my calling. Pretending to be something you’re not will stop you from becoming all that you are.