This little series of events meant so much to me at the time because even as a child I strangely knew where my father was going – and that, best case scenario, he would make it home. By the grace of God he did it, day after day, year after year. Looking back, I can understand why I fought so hard to maintain these special traditions, even years after I had run out of Orange Flintstones vitamins and my father had transitioned from active fire service to administrative roles: I believe in the ritual awakening, the familiar The blaring of The Temptations’ “Silent Night” and those chewy, processed marshmallows were a kind of shield for my father, one of the few black firefighters at his station, and for my family, the only black people there block the station. This is the power of tradition, a golden thread that connects the past and the present. For resilient Black families like mine, traditions are not just celebrations—they are acts of preservation. They carry the weight of lineage, connecting us to those who came before and those who will come after.
