Family narrative

My mom, dad, sister, and I have the last name Khabir. But we’re not from the part of the world where that name is popular. My dad’s given name was Michael Morton and he had it legally changed to Jabbar Nyama Khabir influenced by 60s Black Civil Rights Movement. Like a lot of parents in the post-Roots era, my parents gave my sister, Jamila, and I “African” names. Though my dad was a devout Catholic to the day he died, my parents didn’t celebrate Christmas or eat pork. We celebrated Kwanzaa and had “African” fertility statues in the living room. In short, by central Pennsylvania standards, we were weird.

But we were also totally fine. At least that’s the way it felt for most of my early childhood. My mom, Mina, was the principal of my Day Care Center so teachers loved me. She had a Master’s degree and wore a suit to work every day and I knew that was a big deal. My dad was The First Black Budget Director for the City of Harrisburg. He never said he worked in finance. Or for the city. He always said he was the First Black Budget Director for the City of Harrisburg.

Around middle school I picked up on the fact that my dad had pretty serious drug and mental health issues. I’ve only recently learned how bad it was and for how long from my mom. My the time I was 12 he was living on the streets and having run ins with law enforcement and it stayed that way for over 20 years until he died in 2005.

His death was the catalyst for my next 10+ years of activism. I wanted to save the world. I participated in protests, sit-ins, and conferences for a range of social justice issues. I think on some level I was trying to finish the work that he started. I had a vague idea from the way that my mom, aunts, and uncles talked that my dad was an activist in New York City before I was born. Just a few months ago I learned my dad and exiled activist Assata Shakur had the same lawyer. That’s a story for another time.

My mom’s story isn’t anywhere as dramatic as my dad’s. She was the rock. My only real constant to this day. She survived. She worked extra jobs when she had to. She robbed Peter to pay Paul (her words). She got to retire and buy her first home just a few years ago. And she still financially supports my sister who also struggles with mental health.

Growing up in this family has taught me every person means something to someone. That you can and should live a principled life. That having a roof over your head and food to eat should never, ever be taken for granted. My story isn’t easy or comfortable, but it made me who I am.

Thanks for listening