Memoirs of missy, by robin beckham

Even as a little girl, I didn’t know how to sit still inside life — I wanted to step into it. To taste it. To try it. To stretch my hands toward every shiny thing the world placed in front of me.

One of the first places I felt that spark was in the Brown- ies. I must have been about seven years old, tiny in my scratchy brown sash, eyes wide with excitement over the badges I could earn. I loved the little metal camping bowls, the tiny compasses, the way the uniform made me feel im- portant — like I was already becoming somebody. I didn’t stay long, but it was long enough to awaken something in me: the hunger to explore, to imagine, to make adventures wherever I landed.

One Christmas still glows like a soft, golden memory. Un- der our wobbly artificial tree sat my very first pair of white ice skates. They were the most glamorous things I had ever seen. I’d lace them tight and wobble across the downtown ice, slipping and landing hard on my behind more times than I can count — and laughing every time I fell. Those

thin blades felt like freedom, even when freedom meant standing back up with wet mittens and sore knees. School became my playground for imagination. I ran to- ward everything: essay contests, poster contests, talent shows, the theatre stage — anything that let me speak, per- form, or be seen. Oratory contests were my favorite. Give me a subject and I would pour my whole heart onto that paper, writing with a passion that felt bigger than my small hands. I collected ribbons, certificates, perfect attendance awards, citizenship honors. I think what I loved most was the feeling that someone saw light in me and took the time to say so.

Then there were the drill teams — homemade, low-bud- get, but high-attitude. We stitched together our own out- fits, shook what our mamas gave us, and strutted like we were stars on a world tour. The adults looked half proud and half horrified. We felt powerful anyway.

One talent show still makes me laugh when I think about it. A group of us danced to “Disco Lady” by Johnnie Tay- lor. We had no idea what that man was singing about — not one clue. All we knew was that beat moved straight through our bones:

“Shake it up, shake it down

Move it in, move it round, Disco Lady...”
And baby — we shook. When the music stopped, the teachers were looking down at the floor like they were pray- ing for forgiveness on our behalf. We were just little girls in love with rhythm.
Sports found their way into my life too, even though I wouldn’t have called myself an athlete. I ran track — noth- ing record-breaking, but full heart, full effort. I played basketball with elbows up and face tight, guarding like I was protecting the NBA Finals. At recess, tetherball, hopscotch, and Four Square were serious business. If you messed up in Four Square, you were out — and pride was everything.
Winter in Denver turned the block into a wonderland. We built snowmen taller than ourselves, collapsed into fresh snow to make angel wings, laughed with frozen fingers and pink noses. Cold never stopped us. We were too alive to notice.
Not everything was innocent. Some kids in the neighbor- hood tried to jump onto moving trains like they were in an action movie. Even back then, I had enough sense to know that was a shortcut to heaven or the hospital. I kept my feet firmly on the ground.

The Fourth of July terrified me. Fireworks sounded like war to my little ears. I’d hide inside most of the night, heart racing with every boom, until I got brave enough to step outside for exactly five brave minutes. I’d light one sparkler, wave it like a trophy, and run my behind right back into the house where it was quiet and safe.

What made it all shine wasn’t the activities themselves — it was the gang of kids. We were a loud little tribe. Always together. Every adventure bigger because we were side by side. They were the soundtrack of my childhood, the heart- beat of my memories.

I didn’t need money.
I didn’t need fancy toys.
I had imagination.
I had freedom.
I had a neighborhood full of children who felt like family. And when I look back now, I can see it clearly:
Even then, I wasn’t made to sit on the sidelines.
I loved writing. Leading. Performing. Competing. Creat- ing.
If something was happening, I had to be part of it.
I wasn’t built to watch life.
I was built to jump into it.

As far back as I can remember, I wanted to be a movie star. Not just act—shine. I wanted to be on a stage, in a spot- light, in front of an audience holding its breath for whatev- er I was about to say next. Whenever my school announced auditions for a play, I was already halfway to the sign-up sheet. And when community theatres in Denver needed kids for ensemble roles, I was right there, volunteering like I had an agent and a résumé.

I wasn’t shy—never have been. I was the kid who talked too much in class, the one who wasn’t afraid to stand up and read loud enough for the whole room to hear. Something in me always craved performance, expression, the magic of storytelling.

Later, when I moved to Seattle, that love only grew. In high school and into college, I followed theatre like it was my north star. I worked at the Langston Hughes Performing Arts Center—a place buzzing with creativity, pride, and Black talent. Then in college, at the University of Wash- ington, my work-study assignment placed me right inside the heart of the arts again at the Ethnic Cultural Center. That building was a world of its own—students rehearsing monologues, poets snapping in rhythm, dancers warming up on creaky floors. Every day, someone was preparing to tell a story, and I felt at home among them.

People often told me, “You look like a young Lena Horne.” I didn’t know enough about her at first, but once I discovered her—her elegance, her grit, her walk-into-a-room-and-make-men-stop-breathing presence—I felt flattered in a way that touched something deep. When I heard her sing Stormy Weather, her voice both smoky and fragile, I thought, Maybe I do have a little of that in me.

Still, the more I grew, the more I realized my real love wasn’t just acting—it was communication. Writing. Speaking. Using my voice to move people. It was as if all the theatri- cal pieces—reading scripts, understanding characters, pro- jecting confidence—were slowly guiding me toward some- thing bigger. Broadcast journalism entered my life like a quiet revelation:

I can perform and tell the truth at the same time.
In high school, I got a taste of that world. Every morn- ing, I sat behind a small speaker in the front office and read the announcements with my best authoritative voice—clear, crisp, confident. “Good morning Vikings. Here are today’s events...” I took it seriously, like I was anchoring the evening news. I also joined Beachline, our school’sclosed-circuitTVproduction.Wefilmedlittleseg- ments around campus, reporting like we were CNN for teenagers.

And because I was always doing the most, I joined clubs—many clubs. But the Black Student Union is the one that shaped me. I walked into those meetings full of fire, not just wanting to belong but wanting a revolution. We were young, bold, and loud, reading Malcolm X, plan- ning rallies, debating identity and justice between math class and lunchtime.

I even wrote dramatic skits for the group and performed them like mini Broadway shows. One monologue I’ll never forget started like this:
“Sometimes, you know Mama, I just about feel like giving up.

But I know if I give up, I should just jump into my grave and say goodbye.
That’s not what I want to do Mama,
I want to make it—for all the folks who never thought I would.
It takes determination, Mama... I will show them.
I will show them...”
Even now, I can hear my teenage voice shaking with con- viction, performing it like my soul was on fire.
By the time I graduated high school, I had published ar- ticles in local newspapers, acted in multiple productions, and competed across the country. One of my proudest mo- ments was representing Seattle in the NAACP’s ACT-SO competition for oratory—the Afro-Academic, Cultural, Technological and Scientific Olympics. We flew into Mia- mi, Florida, a group of eager Black teens ready to show the nation what we were made of.
Walking into that competition felt like walking into a uni- verse of Black brilliance—singers, scientists, poets, mathe- maticians, dancers, all under one roof. I was starstruck, in- spired, and humbled.
Lacy Steele, then the president of the Seattle NAACP, came with us. I remember chasing after him at one point, trying to ask if he’d sign permission for me to be a Jet Mag- azine centerfold. I was underage and needed an adult sig- nature. Let’s just say that idea was shut down quick—but the fact that I even entertained it shows exactly how ambitious and bold I was. I wasn’t afraid to ask for permission to shine.
ACT-SO, the theatre departments, the voiceover work in school, the journalism—all of it wove together to shape me. These experiences didn’t just teach me how to speak, write, or perform. They taught me that my voice deserved to exist. They connected me to my community, to activism, to the long line of storytellers and truth-tellers before me. They helped me discover who I wanted to become.

I may not have become a Hollywood movie star, but I became something just as powerful—
a woman who understands her own voice
and isn’t afraid to use it.

Some of the moments that shaped me most were not the loud or dramatic ones, but the quiet, steady hands of teach- ers who saw something in me before I could see it in my- self.
One of those early influences came from a school I attend- ed only briefly: Annunciation Catholic School in Denver, Colorado.
I can still picture my first day — tall, echoing hallways and the soft slap of my shoes against polished floors. My small hands gripped the straps of my backpack as I walked, feel- ing both nervous and proud to be there. The sisters had a presence that was gentle but firm, the kind of authori- ty that didn’t feel threatening, just honest. It felt like they could see straight through you — not to judge you, but to lift you.
They didn’t just teach reading and math. They taught how to live.
Sister Mary Rosenda talked about honesty — not just in big, dramatic moments, but in the tiny choices you make when no one is looking. Sister LaVonne taught us to help

others without needing applause, to do right simply be- cause it was right. I was only seven or eight years old, but those lessons went deep. They planted themselves inside me like roots.

I don’t remember the exact moment I stopped going there. I just know that one day, the tuition was too much, and I didn’t go back. At the time, I was sad. A little confused. Now I understand — those few months were a lifelong gift.

Even when life became louder and more complicated — Seattle, new schools, new neighborhoods, the storm of teenage years — the voices of those sisters followed me qui- etly.

Stand tall.
Speak truth.
Be kind.
It amazes me how a small school and a short season could shape a lifetime.

Hair, Hurt, and Learning to Love Myself
There is a childhood memory that never left me.
One day, I went to a neighbor’s house and begged her to straighten my hair. I can’t remember her name, only that

she was a Mexican woman with long black hair and that I sometimes babysat her children. I wanted straight hair so badly, just like hers. My curls felt like a problem I needed to fix.

Back then, “hair straightening” in a Mexican household, meant an ironing board and a real iron. You laid your head down on the board, and they pressed your hair if it was long enough. Mine must have been. Somehow, I moved — and the hot iron burned my shoulder.

That burn stayed longer than the pain.
There was always something about my hair.
Once, I borrowed a Black girlfriend’s fake pom-pom — an afro puff — and clipped it onto my head for school pic- tures. I thought I looked good.
But by the end of the school day, that puff had shifted side- ways. When those pictures came back?
That afro was leaning like it had its own attitude.
Not my best look.
Hair wasn’t just hair. It was identity. It was wanting to look like everyone else, while trying to figure out who I really was.

Stages, Dogs, and Small Losses

In high school, I landed the lead in a play called I Remem- ber Mama, a story about a Norwegian immigrant family. I played Katrin.
A Black girl.

In a Norwegian story.
The director even added a note in the program explaining that the cast had been chosen for ability, not ethnicity. I re- member reading it and feeling something shift inside me. Why did it need explaining?
I didn’t have the language for it back then, but I felt the truth of it—how deeply race shaped perceptions, and how much it mattered in spaces where it absolutely shouldn’t. Still, even as a teenager, my Black pride ran strong. I found old posters where I had been honored during “Black Awareness Month.” Say it loud, I’m Black and I’m proud wasn’t just a slogan—my Blackness lived in me, through me, and I made sure everyone knew you couldn’t mess with this Black girl.
Beyond my involvement in the Black Student Union, high school gave me moments that revealed exactly who I was becoming. I remember getting in trouble—probably for talking too much—and a white female teacher at Rainier

Beach High School told me to go sit in the back of the class- room. I planted my hands on my hips, summoned the spirit of Rosa Parks, and announced to the teacher and the entire class:

“Yes, I will go to the back of the bus.”
Then I sashayed to the back with attitude, chin up, daring anyone to say a word.

Some of my tenderest memories include my first dog, Ted- dy Bear. I still don’t know what happened to him. One day he was just... gone. Nobody explained it. He wasn’t there anymore.

Maybe that silence is why I love dogs so much now.
I have five. One is nineteen years old.
I remember stray dogs running the neighborhood and dog catchers roaming the streets with long metal poles, trying to trap dogs by their necks. It seemed cruel to me even then. I hated watching it.

Games, Imagination, and Soul Train Dreams We didn’t have Disney trips or fancy vacations. Marion Street was our Disneyland.
We used imagination like oxygen.

We played hopscotch, jump rope, red light green light — all those blacktop games that still live inside me. When I watched Squid Game, the hit series on Netflix, years later, something about it felt strangely familiar — childhood games turned into some- thing bigger, heavier.

Tetherball was one of my favorites. And swings — oh, I loved the swings. I’d pump my legs, higher and higher, un- til the sky felt close enough to touch. For a while, I lived in the clouds.

We didn’t have much technology. We didn’t sit inside watching TV all day. But when the TV did come on — Soul Train was everything.
And like every other girl I knew, I had a huge crush on Michael Jackson from the Jackson 5.

I wanted a big, beautiful afro like the girls on TV, so one day I washed my hair with some kind of harsh detergent I thought would make my curls frizzy. And guess what?
It worked.

For a hot minute.
All I needed was a ton of oily activator spray, and I was sure of one thing:
When Michael saw me, he was going to choose me as his girlfriend.

I was convinced.

Rainier Beach: Lessons the Hard Way
At Rainier Beach High School, I thought I was a soccer star.
I remember one game clearly. A bigger girl from Samoa was coming straight toward me. I hit her with a slick little spin move — faked her out, clean.
I felt amazing.
Untouchable.
The very next play, I tried it again.
She didn’t go for the ball.
She kicked my leg — hard — right above my ankle.
That bruise lasted over a year.
That day, I learned a deep life lesson:
Don’t clown the wrong person. Pride can leave you painfully educated.

Angelia: God’s Gift in a Locker Assignment
Freshman year, they assigned me a locker partner: Angelia Hicks.
She was a full-on Church of God in Christ (COGIC) preacher’s daughter.

Bossy. Polished. Churchy.
And I didn’t want her.
At all.
She lived in a two-parent household with Mama Helen Hicks, a true powerhouse who ran one of Seattle’s first day- care centers for Black children when it wasn’t popular or easy. Her father, Rev. James Hicks, was a major pastor in the community.

Meanwhile, I was living with my father, Reginald — out in the streets, unpredictable, moving through chaos. I never knew who’d be in the house or what was going on.
But somehow... we became best friends.

We joined Black Student Union, stayed active, got in- volved. One day we decided to attend a student council meeting.
She didn’t know what I was about to do.

I nominated her for class president.
She won.
We ran that campaign like it was Obama’s election years early. There was no way she wasn’t going to win.
That friendship was God in disguise.
We didn’t know it then, but God did.
Today, Angelia is the godmother to my children, and now

in our sixties, we’re still doing life together — discovering new adventures, new laughter, and new ways to be grate- ful.
That’s the kind of friendship that only God can write.

My earliest role models were my step-parents, Mama T and Daddy Sarge. Their love for each other—steady, loyal, and enduring despite life’s difficulties—left a lasting mark on me. They gave of themselves to everyone around them, sharing the little they had without hesitation. Their exam- ple of unconditional love, generosity, and humility shaped the way I approached relationships, community, and fam- ily.
When I moved to Seattle to live with my biological father, Reginald, I connected with another powerful influence in my life: my grandmother, Cecilia Jones. My dad had al- ways been her favorite, and I could see why—she had a gift for forgiving him, supporting him, and loving him fiercely, even when he pushed the limits of her patience. Through her, I learned more about the resilience embedded in our family’s DNA.
My father grew up in Mount Vernon, Alabama, without his father, Peter Boasten, who had disappointed my grand- mother. She had children with Peter, Leonard Johnson,

and later her husband Henry Jones—and yet she faced every one of life’s challenges with strength and determina- tion. I was too young for her to share the deepest parts of her story, but what I later learned about her childhood in Mount Vernon wasn’t easy.

I learned she was the daughter of a married man, William Lovett Sr., a member of a prominent Black family in Mo- bile, Alabama. William Lovett Sr.—who passed away in 1968—was a deacon at True Vine Baptist Church and president of both the Lovett’s Burial Association and Lovett’s Funeral Home. His remains were laid in state at the church, a testament to his standing in the community. His own father, Rev. Britt Mose Lovett Sr., had served as minister of True Vine Baptist Church for more than fifty years. The Lovett family had deep roots in Mobile—deep enough that they still own a funeral home in the area to- day.

So when I think of my grandmother being known in the community as a “love child,” my heart aches for what she must have endured. I later learned even more from my grandmother’s brother, Willie “Sonny” Lovett, whom I absolutely adored. We spent time together all over Mobile. Uncle Sonny was proud to teach me about the Black side

of my family and the connections that shaped my grand- mother’s life.
I still don’t know the full story of how my great-grand- mother, Australia Archie Boasten, and Mr. Lovett came together, but down South, once I started working as a re- porter, it seemed like everybody knew the story. I didn’t. Grandma rarely talked about her past, and when I once brought out my recorder hoping to capture her memories, she would share stories about juke joints and fishing—but she skipped over the painful parts. I understand now. She carried so much—having my father, raising him largely on her own, surviving heartbreak, disappointment, and gos- sip. And yet she stayed connected to the Lovett side of the family, proud enough to share stories about them and to honor where she came from.

Grandma Cecilia’s life in Seattle was another testament to her perseverance. She bought a beautiful home in Federal Way, Washington, becoming one of the few Black families in the neighborhood. Her children attended predominant- ly white schools, yet each of them went on to excel academ- ically and professionally—quiet evidence of her sacrifices and her strength. She nicknamed me “Delicious,” saying my rosy cheeks reminded her of Washington apples. She

taught me pride in my heritage and courage in the face of injustice.
One moment I will never forget happened at my Uncle Roland’s high school graduation. The band started playing “I Wish I Was in Dixie’s Land,” a song drenched in nos- talgia for the old South and slavery. My grandmother was so offended—so deeply insulted—that she stood up, lifted her head, and walked out. Watching her, something settled into me: a sense of dignity, awareness, and a refusal to ac- cept disrespect or injustice in any form.

Grandma Cecilia was civically engaged as well. She worked the polls during elections, proudly serving her community and the democratic process. To this day, every time I vote, I feel her presence walking beside me.

Another monumental figure in my life was my Uncle Joe Harrison. Born in 1919 in a small town in Wilcox County, Alabama, he was raised by his grandparents and grew up in the segregated South. Through all of life’s challenges, Un- cle Joe remained a man of dignity, faith, and quiet strength. My grandmother had entrusted him with a promise: to watch over me, her granddaughter, “Delicious.” He kept that promise to the end of his life.

Uncle Joe worked tirelessly—first in the shipyards, then in timber, and later for the Washington State Department of Transportation. He was a talented photographer, captur- ing historic events like the Mount St. Helens eruption. He was a founding member of the local NAACP branch, char- tered a Masonic lodge, and quietly lived a life of simplic- ity and purpose. Material possessions held little meaning for him; he had the same refrigerator and stove for over forty years, yet his home radiated warmth, with a garden full of sunflowers, greens, and vegetables—a reflection of his pride, patience, and care.

I remember talking to him during Barack Obama’s elec- tion, witnessing his pride and wonder that he had lived to see a Black man become President of the United States. From Uncle Joe, I learned that a meaningful life is not measured by wealth or possessions but by service, integrity, and community. He was a man of few words but infinite lessons, and even now, not a day goes by that I don’t think of him. His legacy—the quiet power of living well, helping others, and leaving a mark through deeds—continues to guide me. It was a surprise for me to discover after Uncle Joe passed the age of 95, that he had close to a million dol- lars in the bank, land in Alabama where he grew timber and

no one would know how rich he really was, of course, he was rich in his faith, love of country and I thank goodness I was one of his favorite nieces.

Mama T, Daddy Sarge, Grandma Cecilia, and Uncle Joe each taught me something essential: love fiercely, stand strong in the face of injustice, give generously, and live with integrity. They shaped the person I am today, and their lessons echo in every choice I make, every relationship I cherish, and every step I take in life.

From a young age, I was determined to work in broad- casting as an anchor and reporter. I attended the Univer- sity of Washington in Seattle, Washington and graduated in just three years with a degree in Broadcast Journalism in 1985. My passion for reporting led me to the University of Illinois at Springfield, where I was selected for the inten- sive one-year Master’s program in Public Affairs Report- ing. Upon earning my MA, I landed an internship with the local channel in Springfield, an experience that set the foundation for my career.

My first professional reporting job was at WTOC-TV in Savannah, Georgia. While proud of the opportunity, I quickly realized the job was far from glamorous. I was expected to cover stories as a “one-man band,” lugging heavy equipment across long distances, sometimes as far as Hilton Head, South Carolina. On one assignment cover- ing jellyfish season at the beach, I accidentally burned out a camera lens due to the relentless sun. The news director

offered little support and soon got fired—a blessing in dis- guise. I knew it wasn’t the right fit and, missing home, re- turned to Seattle.
Back in Seattle, I reconnected with my college room mate Katie, and together we opened a coffee shop, Sweet Springs, with her creating her own clothing line in the back. During that time, I also contributed stories to Black Entertainment Television, working alongside Ed Gordon as the national anchor. This gave me national exposure while staying close to the Seattle scene.

Knowing I needed to “pay my dues,” I resumed my broadcasting career in Montgomery, Alabama, as an an- chor/reporter for WAKA. Here, I met Rosa Parks and be- came deeply involved in covering civil rights stories, in- cluding the reenactment of the Edmund Pettus Bridge march in Selma. Moving to Mobile, Alabama, to work at WKRG-TV, I experienced an unexpected personal bless- ing: reconnecting with my extended family, including my biological grandfather Peter Boasten. Through my report- ing, I bonded with relatives, learning more about my fam- ily’s history and heritage, and rediscovered the rich con- nections that ran through my father’s side. My biologi-

cal grandfather, Peter Boasten, became a quiet but mean- ingful presence in my life while I was working in Mobile, Alabama. He would stop by the station with fresh fish he’d caught, and those visits—simple as they were—be- came moments I cherished. Getting to know him as an adult allowed me to connect pieces of my history that had long been scattered, and he quickly became one of my fa- vorites.

When my grandmother, Cecilia Jones, ended her relation- ship with Peter, she gave my father, Reginald, the last name Beckham, taken from Harvey Beckham. But everyone in Mount Vernon, Alabama knew the truth—that I was Pe- ter’s granddaughter, and that the name Beckham wasn’t my original family line.

I’ve learned to appreciate how history has a way of reveal- ing itself in time—often with a brilliance, a timing, and a clarity you never could have imagined.

My career progressed to Birmingham, Alabama, where I worked at WBRC-TV as an anchor/reporter and also an- chored a statewide newscast. One of the most profound stories of my career happened at Holman Correctional Fa- cility, covering the execution of Wallace Norrell Thomas.

Interviewing Thomas before his execution was emotional- ly devastating and gave me firsthand insight into the pain, tragedy, and moral complexities of the criminal justice sys- tem. This experience shaped how I viewed my role as a jour- nalist and the importance of telling difficult stories with humanity.

After returning to Seattle for freelance opportunities, in- cluding more work with BET, I sought to utilize my mas- ter’s degree in public affairs. I was offered a position in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, at WPXI-TV as a public affairs manager. Moving to the Steel City in September 1993, I worked for 11 years in a variety of roles—producing talk shows, sports events, and award-winning documentaries. Some of my favorite projects included:

They Stood Their Ground – Celebrating civil rights lead- ers in the region.
Sisters on a Sojourn – Covering the Million Woman March in Philadelphia.

The Last of the Buffalo Soldiers
Pennsylvania’s Pathways to Freedom – Exploring stories of the Underground Railroad.
Heart of a Champion – Interviews with Olympic gold medalists John Woodruff and Roger Kingdom.

Later, I transitioned into corporate communications at United Steel Corporation, traveling with executives on pri- vate planes and visiting steel plants—most memorably in Gary, Indiana. That period gave me an intimate under- standing of heavy-industry operations and the art of strate- gic corporate storytelling.

At Education Management Corporation, I discovered the power of online technology for audience building and communication. Those lessons became foundational when I stepped into entrepreneurship.

With that experience, I launched Beckham Media, a public relations agency where one of my earliest and most influ- ential clients was William “Bill” Strickland, president and CEO of the Manchester Bidwell Corporation. Working with Bill taught me how to manage diverse people, com- plex projects, and broad-reaching industries while staying mission-focused and results-driven. I remain deeply appre- ciative of him—not only because he took a chance on my young business, but because observing him up close fun- damentally shaped my understanding of leadership.

Bill’s ability to negotiate, build relationships, and repli- cate training centers around the world makes him one of the most innovative social entrepreneurs in the coun- try. His vision created a template for social change, con- necting business leaders, government officials, philan- thropists, and other key influencers to support the Man- chester Craftsmen’s Guild and the Bidwell Training Cen- ter. Bidwell’s model serves disadvantaged and at-risk youth through arts engagement, while providing job training for adults—transforming lives with dignity, opportunity, and hope.

His accolades reflect the magnitude of his work: the MacArthur “Genius” Award (1996), the Skoll Award (2007), and the Goi Peace Award (2011). Promoting Bill’s book, Make the Impossible, Possible, allowed me to watch him operate at the highest levels—closing deals, leading with purpose, and quietly becoming a global force.

As I moved from broadcasting into the corporate public-af- fairs world, I gained a front-row seat to the individuals who wield real power at the top. I learned how key leaders and executives prepare, think, and execute—focused, in- tentional, and razor-sharp when it comes to accomplishing their goals.

In 2009, I launched PittsburghUrbanMedia.com, an urban media platform dedicated to elevating stories that shape and impact the Black community in Western Penn- sylvania. As founder and editor, I curate news, culture, commentary, and features—while also mentoring emerg- ing journalists who are finding their voice and place in the industry.

One of my greatest blessings has been working with con- tributors like Jack L. Daniel, whose wisdom, clarity, and lived experience have added immeasurable depth to the platform. Jack has a gift: he can take any current issue in the news and frame it through a lens that feels both time- less and unmistakably rooted in the Black experience. His writing carries an “old school” rhythm—steady, wise, fa- miliar—resonating in your spirit the way a message from an elder does when it lands at just the right moment.

His mentorship continually inspires me to finish my own book and to keep expanding the reach and purpose of the platform.

Today, I continue to expand Beckham Media, hire and mentor young reporters, and leave a legacy as an entrepre- neur who used her talents, voice, and vision to succeed on

her own terms—a lioness in the woods, hunting for her own food and never waiting for someone else to feed her.

When I think about the true pleasures in my life, the things that bring me real joy aren’t flashy or extravagant—they are grounded in peace, in creativity, in love, and in the sim- ple rhythms of everyday life. I especially treasure the calm I feel working from home as an entrepreneur. There is some- thing sacred about sitting at my own desk, free from the noise of an office, building stories, crafting messages, and shaping narratives that matter to the community. Writing gives me space to breathe. Running my online news web- site gives me purpose. And doing both on my own terms gives me the peace of mind I once dreamed of but wasn’t always sure I could reach. One of my greatest joys is be- ing a dog mom. At this moment, I have five dogs—my lit- tle tribe of furry companions who follow me from room to room and curl up near my feet while I work. Max- imus, my 19-year-old Malti-Poo, is still hanging on with that stubborn spark in his eyes. Rocky, Beautiful, Harri- son, and Aurora each have their own personalities, quirks, and rhythms. But the love of my life was Delicious. When she died in 2019, my heart broke in a way I didn’t expect. I still feel the quiet space she left behind. She was family. She *is* family. And her little brother Maximus has carried on, giving me comfort on the days when her absence feels loud- est. My dogs spend more time with me than most people do. As I write these words, they are scattered around the house—some near, some tucked into warm corners—yet always within my orbit. Their loyalty, their softness, their joy in the simplest things... they bring me a kind of love that asks for nothing in return except my presence.

Outside my home, I nurture another little communi- ty—one full of wild rabbits, birds, deer, curious chip- munks, and squirrels that visit me each day. They know when I’ve bought the expensive bird food, the kind packed with nuts and seeds. The deer pause at the edge of the yard like they own the place. The rabbits nibble quietly, un- bothered by my steps. Nature has a way of grounding me, reminding me of the simplicity of being alive.

I’m certain my love for gardening came from my Un- cle Joe. I can still see him out in his garden, tending his huge sunflowers—those bright yellow faces smiling into

the wind, scattering seeds like confetti. Now I have plants all throughout my house, each with a personality of its own. Helping them thrive through the winter months is a challenge I fully embrace. They remind me of life’s per- sistence, how small acts of care can bring beauty into any room.

Our house is also home to two parakeets whose chirp- ing rises up at the exact moment I answer a phone call, as if they’re offering their own commentary. Their chatter seeps into the background of my day. And when everything grows too quiet, the tranquil hum of the fish tank brings me back to myself. I love watching those bright fish glide through the water, dancing in slow motion, unbothered by anything outside their glass world.

The older I get, the more I realize that pleasure, for me, comes from simple things. I don’t need more clothes or shoes. Give me time—time to create, time to write at mid- night, time to work at my own pace, time to build my busi- ness on my terms. That is a gift.

Some of my deepest joy comes from being a mom. When my son Isaiah first stepped onto the football field in eighth grade, I was right there, his loudest fan. I chronicled his journey, drove him to camps, traveled from stadium to sta- dium, cheering until my throat hurt. When he was recruit- ed to play in college, I felt like we had both reached the fin- ish line of a marathon we ran together. Even though he later chose not to continue playing, I know football gave him discipline, resilience, and grit. My daughter found her pas- sion in cheerleading, and watching her soar—literally and figuratively—with her Shady Side Academy squad filled me with pride. There is nothing like witnessing your chil- dren find what lights them up, set goals, and follow their own path. Whether it was football, cheer, track, or acade- mics, the joy was always in seeing them work hard and win small victories along the way. Few things in life compare to that feeling—seeing your children succeed simply because they believed in themselves and put in the work.

I’ve also found a new kind of pleasure in cooking. Mixing flavors, trying new recipes, and creating meals that bring comfort or surprise—it’s become a quiet ritual of love in my home. Feeding people is its own kind of joy.

And finally, few things compare to the satisfaction of closing a deal as an entrepreneur, publishing a story that in- forms or uplifts someone, or spending real quality time with those I love. These are the pleasures that make my life full—simple, meaningful, rooted in love, work, creativity, and connection. Those are the blessings. Those are the joys. Those are the pieces of life that make everything worth- while.