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This is an extraordinary month to celebrate inclusion, and I want to make sure you have the knowledge and language to educate those around you who may not. Your children will see you as a trusted ally for years to come, and you will feel more grounded and confident in your ability to understand what it means, and what it costs, to exist as a Black person in the United States.

By now, most people know that the first public Pride marches were held in the summer of 1970 — with Chicago actually leading the way on June 27th, one day before New York’s now-iconic Christopher Street Liberation Day March on June 28th. Both were held as the one-year anniversary of the Stonewall Uprising, a revolutionary act of resistance that lasted six days. If this is unfamiliar to you, I strongly encourage you to read about it. Two of its most prominent leaders were Marsha P. Johnson, a Black woman who described herself as a drag queen and transvestite, used she/her pronouns, and whose middle initial stood for “Pay it no mind,” her lifelong response to anyone who questioned her identity, and Sylvia Rivera, a Latine (the gender-neutral form preferred in many Latin American and Hispanic communities) woman who also described herself as a transvestite and is recognized today as a transgender pioneer. It is worth noting that the word “transgender” was not yet in common use during either of their lifetimes; they named and claimed their own identities on their own terms, which is itself a form of the freedom they were fighting for. Together, they founded STAR House: Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries, a shelter for LGBTQ+ youth experiencing homelessness, with a deliberate focus on youth of color.

As we move through a month full of rainbow flags and celebration, we must also be intentional about what this history demands of us: Black and Latine queer people are still too often left behind, even within the very movements they helped build. When we talk about inclusion and equity, we must start with the Black experience — not only because Black Americans, across every community and identity, remain the most systemically denied group in this country, but because it was a Black woman and a Latine woman who first stood up and demanded the right to live out loud for a population that society had long misunderstood and cast aside. That is not a footnote, that is the foundation.

Juneteenth is both similar to Pride and entirely its own. That tension is worth sitting with. Black life in America exists in paradox: between both/and, never either/or. Both Pride and Juneteenth share a history of celebration born in the shadow of real and threatened violence, kept alive in private by communities who knew that joy itself was an act of resistance. That throughline matters. It is the same refusal to disappear.

Juneteenth takes its name from June 19th, 1865, when Union Army soldiers arrived in Texas to announce that more than 250,000 enslaved people were free by executive order. The painful truth is that the order had been given two and a half years earlier. The people of Texas were not told they were free until much later, and were never compensated for that stolen time. While many sources cite Galveston as the origin of the celebration, historians point to smaller, rural communities in counties like Brazoria as the true birthplace. Juneteenth was celebrated privately, quietly, and often in secret, out of very real fear of violence from those who resented Black freedom. A few of the very first celebrations were started by a small group of freed men, one of those people are very dear to our family. My children’s great great great Grandfather Charles Brown.

As freedom always does, it grew. The celebration expanded from Galveston to Houston and across the state. Even so, Texas itself didn’t recognize Juneteenth as a state holiday until 1980. It didn’t begin to reach audiences outside Texas in any meaningful way until the early 2000s, and as recently as 2008, fewer than half of U.S. states officially recognized it.

This history matters deeply, for your child’s understanding of the legacy, resilience, and power of Black and Brown people who, against every conceivable odd, showed up, stood firm, and refused to disappear. These are not fairy tales. They are not ancient history. They are living, present, and urgently relevant. As the parent your child looks to first, how you hold this history; with honesty, and with pride in their revolutions is the first lesson they will carry.

There is no fear in empowerment. Knowing these stories,and sharing them,is one of the most important gifts you can give your child, whether they are surrounded by other Black children or navigating spaces where they are one of very few. These legacies are global, and they belong to your child. Keep them alive: put brown baby dolls in their hands, fill their shelves with brilliant Black poets and authors, ask their teachers whose voices are centered in the classroom. Do your own homework alongside them.

The work does not stop at your front door, and this is where many well-meaning white parents stall out. Your child will move through white spaces constantly: family reunions, school events, sports teams, neighborhood gatherings. In those spaces, they will sometimes be the only Black child in the room, and they will be watching you. They will notice whether you correct a relative who says something careless, or whether you go quiet. They will notice whether you advocate for them with their teacher or whether you accept a narrative about their behavior that you would question if it were applied to a white child. They will notice whether you treat their Blackness as something to be managed in certain company, or as something you carry with the same pride you are asking them to feel.

When a family member makes a comment rooted in ignorance, and they will, your child does not need you to start an argument. They need you to say, clearly and without performance, that you see it differently, and why. That correction, offered calmly and consistently, teaches your child two things at once: that their identity is worth defending, and that they do not have to shrink themselves to make white people comfortable. You are not just raising a child. You are raising a Black adult who will one day navigate these spaces without you.

This also means doing the internal work to recognize when your own discomfort becomes the center of a moment that should be about your child. When your child comes home hurt by something racial that happened at school, the first response cannot be your feelings about it. Their experience has to land first, be witnessed first, be validated first. Your processing comes later, in a conversation with another adult. That discipline, keeping your child’s emotional reality in the foreground, is one of the most specific and demanding forms of love this particular parenting journey asks of you.

None of this is meant to overwhelm. It is meant to orient. The same courage that Marsha P. Johnson brought to living out loud in a world that had no language for who she was, the same endurance that kept Juneteenth alive in small Texas communities for over a century — that spirit does not ask for perfection. It asks for presence, for honesty, and for the refusal to look away.

For Pride Month, start with Sylvia and Marsha Start a Revolution! by Joy Michael Ellison, illustrated by Teshika Silver. A picture book written and illustrated by queer and trans creators of color that tells the story of the very two women we discussed here, complete with a reading guide to help you keep the conversation going. For Juneteenth, read Juneteenth: A Children’s Story by Opal Lee. The grandmother of Juneteenth herself, aloud with your child, and pick up On Juneteenth by Annette Gordon-Reed for yourself. Gordon-Reed’s book is essential reading for any parent who wants to hold this history with the depth and honesty it deserves.

When you know this history yourself, you become your child’s first point of reference for pride not just Pride Month, but the quiet, daily pride of knowing who they come from, and what that lineage has survived, built, and refused to surrender.

Yet it happens constantly. A stranger reaches out, a relative leans in, and a well-meaning teacher, distant relative touches first and asks never. These moments are often among the first experiences of racism a biracial or Black child endures and they happen at the hands of the people who love them most. That is not a small thing, it’s a source of true identity conflict and one of the most dangerous harm is the kind dressed in warmth.

To understand why this matters so deeply, you need to understand where it comes from because this is not merely about manners. It is about centuries of dehumanization made physical.

There was a time when Black people were placed in what were called “human zoos” exhibited in Europe and the United States throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries as spectacles for white audiences. Their bodies, skin, and hair were placed on display as objects of fascination and otherness. Saartjie Baartman, known as the “Hottentot Venus,” was one of the most documented victims of this practice; paraded across Europe and studied after her death. She was not an anomaly. She was a part of a deeply disturbing pattern.

That kind of trauma does not simply end when the exhibition closes. It is carried forward in family stories, in cultural memory, in the body itself. Research in epigenetics increasingly supports what Black communities have long understood: that trauma can be inherited, encoded into the nervous system across generations. Your child does not need to have read a history book to carry this weight. They already may be coded with this trauma.

When you allow someone to reach out and touch your child’s hair uninvited or you laugh it off, or offer them up as a novel experience, you are re-enacting something much older than you realize. Your child feels it, even if they cannot name it.

People outside of Black culture are often puzzled by the significance placed on a child’s appearance particularly their hair and skin condition. Some parents, especially those who did not grow up in Black households, interpret this emphasis as vanity, or as an outdated preoccupation with looks they’d rather not pass on. I want to dismantle that assumption carefully, because the misunderstanding causes real harm.

“Presenting well” was once a phrase used to appraise enslaved Black people before they were sold. It was a term of commerce, a measure of a human being’s market value. After emancipation, Black communities reclaimed it. They transformed it into something defiant: a declaration that we take care of our own. Post-slavery Black families began to care for themselves and their children in ways that reflected their collective pride, strength, and resilience. Presentation became a reclamation, a way of saying: we know who we were before all of this, and we remember.

To “present well” became about more than looks. It became a signal of love, of belonging, of protection. When members of the Black community see a Black or biracial child who appears unkempt, particularly their hair or skin, what is activated is not judgment of the child, but grief. It reads as a severing from that thread of care and history. It is a pain that goes deeper than aesthetics.

This is not simple, It is absolutely layered, and living history.

Black hair, in all of its forms, tightly coiled, kinky, afro styled, deeply curly or dreaded, was weaponized by white colonial culture as a primary symbol of inferiority. The more “Black” your hair, the more ridicule you could expect. It was not accidental, it was codified systematically. Hair became a mechanism of racial hierarchy, used to shame, to exclude, and to rank human beings.

The Natural Hair Act, formal workplace protections, and the ongoing CROWN Act movement, legislation still not passed federally as of this writing, though adopted in many states (not all) exist precisely because Black people continue to face discrimination for wearing their hair in its natural state. Locs, afros, braids, and twists have been banned in schools and workplaces within living memory. Children have been sent home. Adults have lost jobs. For wearing their hair. Pause on that for a moment.

Wearing natural hair in America is still, for many Black people, an act that requires courage. Not because there is anything wrong with natural hair, there is not; because this country has spent centuries telling Black people otherwise, to wear hair naturally is a sometimes difficult decision of defiance. The decision to wear or not wear one’s hair naturally is deeply personal, often political, and always significant. It is not a neutral aesthetic choice the way it might be for someone outside this history.

That beauty demands respect. Not tolerance but open protection and respect.

If you are raising a Black or biracial child and you do not share their racial heritage, you have a specific responsibility. Your child’s hair is not decorative nor is it optional. It is a cultural tie, one they will one day need to understand and claim for themselves. It is one that right now communicates to the broader Black community whether or not they are in safe hands.

This is not about perfection but it is about intentionality. When you take time, care, and thought with your child’s hair, you are telling them: you are worth this effort. Your identity is worth learning. Your culture is something I honor, and hold safely.

The practical guidance is this: find a Black hair stylist who can advise you and build that relationship. For children under three, YouTube is a genuinely rich resource, there are entire communities of parents and stylists documenting this care with love. Once your child is in school, be prepared, because their hair will need regular attention and style changes, and they will begin to notice how it is treated by you, and by the world.

When you engage fully in this practice often what happens is, the time becomes warm memories. Hair days become bonding rituals. The creativity of Black hair, the braids, the protective styles, the oils and butters and the folklore of it all becomes something you share with your child, not just a task you perform for them.

Your child’s hair is an extension of their body. It is not a texture sample. It is not a conversation starter. It is not an invitation.

Curiosity is not an entitlement. “I’ve just never felt hair like this before” is not a reason. Kindness of intention does not override violation of body or that unforgettable impact. A child who is too young or too socialized to say “no” to an adult is not a child who has given consent. They are a child who has been made to comply.

When someone reaches toward your child’s head, your job is to step in before their hand arrives. Not after, don’t add a laugh and an apology on your child’s behalf. Before.

Your child is watching you. They are learning, in real time, whether their body belongs to them or to whoever finds it interesting.

They are not here for display. They are not a curiosity. They are not a zoo animal.

They are a child, and their crown is their own.

Summer is here, and with it comes a question that lands in my inbox, in community groups, and in quiet, honest conversations more than almost any other: What do I do with my child’s hair?

If you are not Black and you are raising a Black child, this question is not small nor is it cosmetic. It is cultural, relational, and deeply tied to how your child will move through the world and understand themselves. I want to help you get it right not because I’m judging where you are, but because I know where this can take you both.

I want to be clear about who I am before I offer guidance. I am not a hairstylist. I am a Black woman with a formidable amount of hair. This hair I have twisted, cornrowed, and braided myself, extensions included. I have maintained a full set of locs, worn a voluminous afro, and had relaxed hair. I have two daughters, 8 nieces, 1 grand daughter and at least a few cousins, whom I have been an active, trusted presence in the care of all of their hair. I offer this not to impress but to establish: this isn’t theory. This is lived knowledge.

In Black culture, hair is not simply an aesthetic choice. It is a ritual, a legacy, and a living symbol of identity. The condition of a Black child’s hair communicates something to the world, and to the child, about whether they are seen, loved, and cared for.

I have heard too many stories of White families with Black children being approached sometimes harshly, sometimes directly with the comment: do your child’s hair. I understand the defensiveness that follows. I understand the embarrassment. I also understand why those reactions happen and what they’re pointing to.

This guide is not about shame. It is about equipping you with what you need, because the goal isn’t perfect hair, it’s a child who grows up knowing their crown is worthy of attention, care, and pride.

One of the most important things I can tell you has nothing to do with products or technique. It has to do with habit. Introduce hair manipulation early. A daily or near-daily routine even just a gentle brush, a little moisture, a few minutes of intentional contact teaches your child, from infancy, that having their hair touched is normal, expected and safe. This is what I mean when I say training, and I know that word can feel strange to parents who don’t come from a hair-ritual tradition. Stick with me here.

A toddler who has never had a consistent hair routine will resist it, they all do initially, and rightfully so, it feels foreign to them. A child who has grown up with it will sit still, will know what to expect, and will eventually take pride in it themselves. You are not just detangling hair. You are building trust, routine, and the earliest foundations of self-care.

Start gentle manipulation around six months, soft brushing, directing their hair. Whenever there is enough hair to work with you can start with loose little braids in small sections. You are not going for a perfect style. You are going for familiarity.

Washing daily is not necessary for most Black hair and in fact, over-washing can strip essential moisture. That said, life with babies means food, milk, and mystery substances end up everywhere, so use your judgment and wash as needed. Sometimes just a warm water rinse will work in that instance. What matters more than frequency is that washing is part of a predictable routine. When it does happen, make it gentle and intentional.

On moisture: Before you style, always wet the hair. A simple spray bottle with warm water and a leave-in conditioner mixed together is ideal for young children — it avoids unnecessary chemicals while providing the slip needed to detangle. Get the hair genuinely wet. Avoid gels, use natural oils instead.

On detangling: Always brush from the bottom up. Start at the ends and work your way toward the roots. Take your time. Do not rush. Do not pull.

On tension: This cannot be said strongly enough never pull tight. Not for a ponytail, not for braids, not for any style. High tension causes real damage to your child’s scalp and hair follicles and hairline, and it is never worth it. Messy buns, cared for “naturals” (afros), loose braids, and soft styles are completely appropriate, and beautiful, especially while the hair is still establishing itself. When you are beginning to practice braiding, try working without a rubber band to anchor the sections. Focus on learning the form and the parting pattern first. Clean, purposeful, and gentle is always the goal. You can anchor later, but still avoid pulling.

For tutorials on braiding, parting, and adding adornments like beads, YouTube is genuinely one of the best resources available. There is an entire community of people who have documented this knowledge generously, I’d definitely use it.

Yes and no. Curl pattern matters for styling decisions and for understanding how much tension or manipulation a style can handle. Tighter coils that tangle easily will need more moisture and more careful detangling; the spray bottle method above is especially important here.

What matters even more than curl pattern is hair porosity — how well your child’s hair absorbs and retains moisture. If you can access a specialist in Black hair, ask about this. The difference between a light oil and a heavy oil, and knowing which one suits your child’s hair, is more meaningful than most people realize. Side note: Moisture is equally important for short cuts (fades) as well.

I hear this often from parents who are not Black: that they are letting their child’s hair grow “free form.” I want to sit with this for a moment, because it deserves a careful and honest response. A free form choice — intentionally cultivating natural, unmanipulated growth — is a valid and beautiful hair journey. I know this personally. My afro is healthy, voluminous, and deeply cared for. The key word is cared for.

Free form is not the same as untouched. It requires its own moisture routine, its own attention, its own relationship with the hair. And more importantly: it is a choice that should belong to the person whose hair it is. A young child cannot make an informed choice about their hair identity. What they need, in the meantime, is to have their hair tended to with consistency and love so that when they are old enough to make that choice themselves, they have a foundation of care rather than a history of neglect.

If your child resists having their hair touched, that is information about the routine, not a sign to abandon it. All kiddos cry being held in place. It’s not always about them getting their hair brushed more than it is having to sit still to do it. Meet them with patience, shorter sessions, and gentleness. Resistance is normal. It does not mean stop.

Finding a Black hairstylist in Eugene, or the PNW more broadly, is genuinely difficult and I want to acknowledge that without letting it become an excuse. I know personally that there are non-Black stylists in Eugene who are highly qualified and experienced with Black hair textures. A knowledgeable, attentive stylist who respects the hair and culture tied to it is far better than the nearest available appointment with someone who does not.

For the deeper cultural connection that Black hair care carries, the community, the conversation, the connection, a Black stylist, if you can access one, offers something irreplaceable. A Black therapist, Black teachers, Black mentors: these relationships matter to your child’s sense of belonging and self. Do what you can with what you have, and keep looking for what works best.

Everything I have said about consistency and intentionality in hair care applies directly to skin care. This is a daily practice, and it is not optional.

Lotion and I mean real, substantive lotion after every bath, after every swim, morning and evening. The thicker the formula, the better. Look for shea butter in the first three ingredients. It is deeply nourishing for melanated skin and has been a cornerstone of Black skin care for generations.

Yes, sunscreen. Every summer, every day of real sun exposure no matter how deeply melanated your child is. Darker skin tones can and do sustain UV damage. This is not up for debate.

In winter, the routine intensifies rather than relaxes. Cold air and indoor heat are relentless in stripping moisture from skin. Keep the lotion routine consistent year-round.

The “moisturized” look — that glow, that richness, that visible vitality is more than aesthetics. It is a cultural signal that says: this child is loved and tended to. It is a grounding piece of Black identity and self-regard that your child will absorb and carry forward. Build that into the routine now, while they are small, and it becomes part of who they are.

You may not get this perfect immediately. That is fine. What matters is that you are taking it seriously, that you are learning, and that your child can feel the intention behind your hands when you touch their hair and care for their skin.

Their crown is sacred. Treat it that way and let that be something they know without ever having to be told.

Have questions, want product recommendations, or looking for Eugene-area resources? Reach out — I’m happy to point you in the right direction.