Editor’s Note: There are curse words in this article that may not be suitable for all audiences.

If you’re expecting to read about hatred toward white people, or about another Black child’s upbringing ruined by racism and hate, then you should stop reading. 

If you’re interested in reading about how a young Black boy with insecurities about his skin colour was raised by extraordinary parents who equipped him with tools to not only survive but thrive in a world where he was often the only Black kid, please continue.

I didn’t experience or see an inordinate amount of overt racism growing up. I think that’s in part because most of my childhood and all of my adolescence happened in Alberta, Canada. While Canada is not perfect, I’m certain had I been raised as a Black boy in America, my life would have been quite different. 

I was sheltered from a lot of that stuff at pivotal points in my life because my culture of choice was ice hockey — which is a world unto itself. I credit my parents, who had the foresight to question where in the world might they raise their African American children and then created the means to execute on the answer to that question. As parents do, they sacrificed so my sister and I could grow up in a healthier, safer and more equitable community-based environment. Canada was all these things for us. 

The biggest battle when it came to the colour of my skin was within. 

I was born in Hayward, Calif., just outside of Oakland. My mother was part of an Air Force family that settled in Oakland when she was in Grade 6. My father is Ghanaian; he was born and raised in Accra, the capital of Ghana. He moved to the U.S., when he was in his mid-20s, where he met my mother on their jobs in Palo Alto, Calif. In 1990, they married and had me. My sister was born nearly four years later. 

I’m Ghanaian-American with Canadian citizenship, which has come to mean everything to me as a young man.

My memories of growing up in the Bay Area are pleasant. I had a lot of family around as my dad’s siblings and my mother’s sisters lived near us. My dad took me to San Jose Sharks games and my obsession with hockey started with the first game I saw. My parents bought the necessary equipment and signed me up for a team. I played one season of ice hockey in Fremont when I was seven years old and knew I had found something I loved. 

Then, out of nowhere, we moved to Edmonton. 

“Where?” I asked my parents. “No, I’m not going.” 

Fights with my parents commenced with this news and will go down in our family history. Another part of our family history now is the reason why my parents wanted to raise us outside the U.S. They wanted us seen simply as “children,” just like my dad was while growing up in Ghana. In the U.S., my parents feared we would be seen as “Black children.” Had there been ice rinks in Ghana, my parents would have taken us there.

I couldn’t understand my parents’ decision to move at the age of eight. I had no friends or family in Canada, but hockey saved me.

Back then, the fact I was the only Black kid on the team was never really verbally expressed. I was just having fun playing hockey with my friends. I have friends today from the first team I played on in Edmonton. There were never any issues about race and how I was treated among my friends, the majority of who are or were in hockey. Sure, there was the odd worn out joke or cliché someone would beat to death (“Black people love chicken and watermelon”). I never had a problem with that. The only thing that bugged me was how hard people would laugh when the joke was actually just not funny.

Fast forward to a 15-year-old me, moving back to America and Seattle for my first year of junior hockey. 

I was so excited. 

In my mind, the U.S. was Canada on steroids. This was based solely on movies even though I was aware of racism, but still hadn’t been heavily affected by it. The one and only time I was called “nigger” to my face in hockey was during an Alberta Cup game. I punched the guy in the head and took the penalty. I couldn’t wait for the reunion. I didn’t know why I was mad; I just knew I was “supposed” to be mad. 

Oddly, I never faced that player in a game again. That word never really affected me the way it might have if I’d grown up in America. But looking back now with hindsight, I think being in this situation in ice hockey — often the only Black player — contributed to my tough guy persona.  I always felt like I had to be the toughest guy in the room because I was Black. I felt the need to play the part as “the Black guy” because I thought that’s what people expected. 

This played out on the ice, too. I would do stupid things that would hurt the team, or even myself. I used to think it was cool to get suspended or miss games because I did something people consider “tough.” I rarely went into a game with the mindset that I could really play hockey; I think I missed opportunities to show people that side. I always felt the pressure —mostly self-imposed — that I had to be the goon. 

When I did play well, I would do something stupid that would take me off the ice and halt momentum. It was stupid of me to feel the need to do these things just because I was Black. Don’t get me wrong, I love fighting in hockey, but I didn’t need to do it nearly as much as I did and for the reasons that I did.  

In Seattle, I was finally able to make sense of why my parents took us to Canada. My eyes were completely open to a different type of racism — U.S. racism. All the stories I had heard from visitors or on American news became real. 

I had been naïve. 

I quickly saw what was different. At high school, I saw Blacks hanging out only with Blacks, Whites with Whites, Asians with Asians, etc. This was completely different from what I was used to in Canada. 

Pretty fast, I figured out a sad reality: I had to tread lightly. I understood what African Americans were experiencing in their own country. My mind runs wild when I think about how different things would have been for me growing up as a Black boy in America. In Canada, I never had any hatred for cops growing up, I was NEVER scared of police. Even now, when I’m in the U.S., I don’t leave my house much unless I really have to. 

Just in case. 

There’s almost always a dark thought when I step out of the house about what could happen based on the fact that I’m Black. I don’t feel that way in Canada, I don’t feel that way in Germany, where I’m playing hockey now. There are plenty of things I love about the United States, but I understand why my parents made the biggest gangster move and found a way to bring us up outside of the U.S. 

My advice for any kid dealing with insecurities about their race, religion, sexuality, gender, etc., is to never think you’re at a disadvantage or you’re cursed due these attributes. It’s the people who spend time and energy trying to bring you down who are fucked. 

Spend absolutely no time thinking about them or their negativity. Trust your moral compass, value all life, and be on the team fighting for love to prevail.