Illustration by Jamiel Law
In the historic Black neighborhood where I grew up in Dallas, a parade would roll off the lot of New Mount Zion Baptist Church on June 19, or the Saturday closest to it, and wend its way through a community where many of the streets were named for institutions and people central to Black history: Oberlin and Ebony. Bellafonte and Dandridge. Bunche and Campanella. Neighborhood celebrities—entrepreneurs, student body presidents, and original homeowners, or “pioneers,” as we called them—would ride like homecoming kings and queens atop convertibles.
When the Juneteenth parade made it to Willowdell Park, we’d have dinner on the grounds, featuring barbecue, sometimes a fish fry, and Big Red “soda water.” There would be three-on-three basketball tournaments under the pavilion and, in recent years, performances of African drumming and Indigenous dance in the field near the creek. Homegrown success stories, such as former Cowboys cornerback Everson Walls, would be inducted into the “Wall of Fame,” a mahogany display case with pride of place in the rec center’s front hall. It was always an intimate affair, among folks we’d known our entire lives who were living out values that our ancestors taught: faith and community, education and industriousness, and, above all, joy.