This small series of events meant so much to me then because, even as a kid, I was strangely aware of where my dad was going—and that, in the very best case of scenarios, he would make it back home. By the grace of God, he did, day after day, year after year. Looking back, I can see why I fought so hard to keep these specific traditions, even years after I’d grown out of orange Flintstone vitamins and my dad had transitioned from active fire duty and into administrative roles: I believe the ritualistic wake-up, the familiar thrum of The Temptations’ Silent Night, and those chewy, processed marshmallows were some kind of protective shield for my dad, one of a few Black firefighters at his station, and for my family, the only Black people on the block. That is the power of tradition, a gilded thread linking past and present. For resilient Black families like mine, traditions aren’t just celebrations—they’re acts of preservation. They carry the weight of ancestry, connecting us to those who came before and those who will come after.
