Angry and frustrated, I push my entire body weight into my lacrosse stick. My cleats dig into the ground, and a mixture of hair oils and sweat sting my eyes. My ears pulse from tension. I am up against a pale-skinned, red-haired girl, and the opposing team is staring into my eyes, trying to find my weak spot. I can see the micro-aggressions forming in her head. I am taking the draw in a tied lacrosse game—and my teammates' parents are watching me. The whistle blows. At this point, I feel my strongest. However, my mind will not stop fixating on the fact that I overheard the other team's coaches referring to me as "the Black girl" –a name that others have called me numerous times in the White-dominated sport. After twelve years of training and five lacrosse sticks, I have learned more about diversity and acceptance than how to win a lacrosse game. Starting lacrosse at a young age involved more than learning the basics. Until my first year of high school, I was the only Black girl on my lacrosse team and was insecure about it. However, this lack of representation did not deter me from assuming the role of a leader; I pushed past my teammates' racial barriers to drive us to victory. My resilience and determination in the face of adversity have been a source of inspiration for many. In my junior year of high school, I once again was the only Black girl on the lacrosse team, and I was sometimes met with micro-aggressions from my coaches and teammates alike. Understanding that my lacrosse skills mattered more than my flesh, I still fought for my team despite how excluded I felt. I knew what mattered was that we all wore the same team name on our chests. If someone were to got through the same as me, I would tell them to proudly wear the color of their skin the same way they wear their sports uniform. Diversity is essential not only in the classroom but also in sports. People representing different backgrounds and experiences provide opportunities for collaboration and learning. I can relate to and empathize with those who live, work, and play in spaces that lack diversity. Not having someone who looks like me and who I can look up to has been my lived experience on the lacrosse field. However, it doesn't matter because whenever I am called out my name during a game, I release my anger with every winning shot I make.

Candied yams are my favorite food because they remind me of how my Grandmother’s faith has made me faithful in God, too. When I was a little girl, Sundays had the same routine in my household. Bright and early, at 7am, I was woken up by my mom, who would open my blinds singing “Good morning Sunshine, it’s time for church!” Groggy and exhausted, I would roll out of bed. However, the excitement of Sunday dinner at Grandma’s raised me to my feet. After putting on my church dress and having coconut oil slathered on my face by my mother, I was ready for the long day ahead. First, we picked up my grandmother, who has not missed a Sunday at First Mount Pleasant Baptist Church in sixty years. At church, I sat in her lap, and the sweet smell of Blue Magic hair grease and bergamot wafted through my nostrils. As I played with her faux pearls, my grandmother tapped her heel to the beat of “Tell it on the Mountain.” In typical Southern Baptist church fashion, we walked out of the church three hours later, stomachs growling from hunger. Thoughts of Grandma’s candied yams crossed my mind, and the hunger pangs continued. After arriving at Grandma’s house, she would help my Papa with the dinner that he had already started on while we were at church. As they cleaned the turnip greens and peeled the rutabagas, static voices emitted from the small, old radio they kept in their kitchen. When my Papa turned his back, I would steal a bite of the raw candied yams on the counter. Slowly but surely, my cousins began to arrive at Grandma’s house, they were too hungry from church. Around 4pm, my grandparents’ one-level ranch house was packed with all of my immediate relatives, ready to get a taste of Grandma and Papa’s home cooking. The living room, kitchen, and dining room were bustling with genuine love, smacking lips, and loud talks about football. As I grew older, Sunday nights at Grandma’s house grew smaller and smaller in size, then ceased to exist. At twelve years old, Sunday nights were no longer surrounded by my family members, but were spent worrying about my aging grandparents. They had gotten older, and began to decline in health, so were no longer able to fix grand dinners every Sunday. As a result, I started to see them less and less, and my once close relationship with them waned. Then one day, when I was sixteen years old, I got my driver’s license. Having not been to First Mount Pleasant since Easter of that year, I decided to take my grandmother to church the next day, since my Papa was no longer strong enough to drive her there every Sunday. It was this step that not only allowed me to overcome the distance between my grandparents, but also brought me closer to God. I sat with my grandmother the entire service, and afterward, she told me how she “prayed that I would come with her [to church] someday.” With tears in my eyes, I hugged her tightly. When I brought her home and my Papa opened the front door, a sweet but familiar smell entered the atmosphere. “Candied yams!” I exclaimed, as I put the car in park, and ran to the kitchen. On the table, I found the sticky yams sitting in the same bowl I used to eat from on Sundays as a little girl.