It is exhausting to exist as a multiracial man in America. In 1978, my West Indian mother entered the United States by way of New York. In order to safely assimilate, my mother relinquished her Caribbean heritage. She later met my African American father at a funeral, fell in love, relocated to the South and learned to cooked soul food. I had an older brother. In 2018 he was shot and killed by a cop.

My work investigates the faceted constructs of self-identity and its relational dependence upon both the living and dead. Through humor, humble self-reflection, and the constant digestion of content, I question the fickle landscape known as social identity. These systematic investigations point to our shared experiences through life and death. I die a little bit everyday while watching your TikToks. My all-access pass to everything all at once makes me consider my mixed-race makeup as I grapple with presumptions of other cultures.

Our problems on earth are universal. Race is a construct. Satire is a vehicle. And grief, just is.