“Good anticipation on her part!” that’s what the commentator said as we watched the back and forth of a tennis match. Good anticipation – being in the right place to return the shot. However, there was nothing good about our anticipation as we discovered one family’s history through a TV show.
I was twelve, a new immigrant. Before moving, we lived in the Bahamas. Life, for the most part, was uneventful, stable, and content. Then without warning, Daddy informed us that we’d be moving to NY. We were never given a good reason and just accepted what we were told. Also, in our household, no one, at least none of us children, questioned authority. My mom presented it as an adventure, but it couldn’t have been easy moving to another country with seven children and all of our earthly belongings. The only thing we anticipated was a life similar to what we left. Within a year of being in 
NY, my hardworking parents were able to purchase a house. Until that point, we, a family of nine, lived upstairs at my uncle’s house in what is now considered a historic brownstone—nine of us in a space better suited for four.
NY, my hardworking parents were able to purchase a house. Until that point, we, a family of nine, lived upstairs at my uncle’s house in what is now considered a historic brownstone—nine of us in a space better suited for four.
Our house's purchase was a milestone for our parents, which created a sense of normalcy and stability for our family. We had one TV, and every night in January of 1977, we were all glued to the TV as we watched Roots: The Saga of an American Family. Mummy, the more outspoken parent, probably was the one who made us aware. But after that first night, all nine of us watched with anticipation as we learned the mostly sordid truth of African American history. It was at once horrifying while instilling in us a sense of pride. Each night, we had no idea what to expect; we were riveted to the screen.
