They say it takes a village to raise a child, but what happens when a piece of your village is tucked away in memories, or across an ocean, rather than in the neighborhood around the corner?
When Azalea was born, I remember holding her in my arms and thinking about all the voices that would one day try to define her. The world is loud. It tells children who they should be before they even understand themselves labeling them, sorting them, and pushing them into boxes. It teaches identity through trends, opinions, algorithms, and stereotypes before they are old enough to protect their hearts from it.
As her mother, I knew something deeply in my spirit: I never wanted the world to introduce my daughter to herself before we did.
So, from birth, Montell and I made a covenant. We looked at this beautiful, perfect blend of us and decided to start early. Not perfectly. Not extravagantly. But intentionally. Because identity does not begin when a child becomes a teenager; it begins in the small, everyday, quiet home moments. It begins with what they hear at the dinner table, the languages spoken around them, the stories they fall asleep to, and the prayers spoken over them before bed.
The Blueprint of the Ultimate Creator
Growing up, culture was not always something openly explained in my family. Some things were simply understood; traditions were unspoken, and values were lived more than they were taught. Now that I am a mother, I realize the immense weight of responsibility in passing those things down before they disappear.
The hard part is that I do not have my Chinese community surrounding me daily.
Sometimes, I grieve that. Culture feels different when you are away from your people, and you suddenly realize how much community helps preserve identity. I find myself wishing she had more aunties correcting her chopstick grip, more elders naturally speaking Cantonese around her, and more massive family gatherings full of loud conversations, shared dishes, and that specific cultural humor only we understand. I miss the moments where culture isn't something intentionally recreated, but simply lived.
But even without that surrounding us constantly, I still try.
Simultaneously, Montell intentionally pours into her Black culture, anchoring her beautifully and fiercely in the strength, resilience, creativity, and brilliance of her roots. We are not competing for space in her identity; we are building a bridge between two rich histories, anchoring them both in a singular, unshakeable foundation: her identity in Christ.
The Bible tells us in the Psalms that we are fearfully and wonderfully made. Jeremiah reminds us that before He formed us in the womb, He knew us.
"Before I formed you in the womb I knew you; before you were born I sanctified you..." — Jeremiah 1:5
God is the ultimate architect. When He knit Azalea together, He did not accidentally spill two distinct cultures into one vessel. None of it was random. Azalea is not "half" of anything. She is fully loved, fully chosen, and fully created on purpose. Her mixed heritage isn't a complex puzzle for her to solve; it is a masterpiece designed by the Creator to reflect His multifaceted Kingdom glory.
Weaving the Tapestry of Legacy
The world often treats multicultural children like they need to explain or defend themselves. They face the inevitable questions: “What are you?” “Which side do you relate to more?” “Do you feel more this or that?”
But I do not want confusion to be the foundation of her identity. I want confidence to be.
Our home is teaching her that you do not shrink your heritage to make others comfortable. You honor it. You steward it. You thank God for it. She deserves to know that her hair is beautiful, her eyes are beautiful, her features are beautiful, and her story is beautiful not because culture itself is our final foundation, but because God intentionally wrote her story before she was ever born. I want her rooted deeply enough in Christ that she can walk into any room on this earth without needing permission to belong there.
Honestly, parenting this way has challenged me, too. It has forced me to reconnect with parts of myself I never realized I missed. There are moments where teaching her culture heals something in me at the same time. I realize I am not just preserving traditions for my daughter; I am preserving pieces of myself.
A Living Dynasty
It is about building identity. Building remembrance. Building roots strong enough that our children know exactly who they are before the world ever tries to tell them otherwise. True transformational leadership starts at home, and legacy is simply what survives through generations because someone decided it mattered enough to pass down.
Every bedtime story, every cultural conversation, every meal, and every prayer matters more than people realize. We are planting the seeds today so she can stand flat-footed tomorrow.
One day, when Azalea grows older and the world starts asking her who she is, I pray she looks them in the eye and answers with unshakeable confidence:
I know who I am. I know whose I am. And I know exactly where I come from.
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