I consider myself a Maker of Things.

When I was somewhere around three or four, I learned to make my first doll, which is in the photo above, whom I still have. I named her “Tylenol” because at the time, I thought that was the most beautiful word I had ever heard. It was new and different, and much like my own name, I didn’t think any other doll would have it. 

I was so proud of making my doll. Even though I got (a lot) of help from my mother, it was still something that I had made with my own two little hands. It also dawned on me that if I could make something like a doll, then there must be a way to make anything and everything I ever wanted. It was like a light bulb turned on in my head.

I come from a family of makers. My maternal grandparents emigrated from Jamaica, fully believing in the American Dream. You just had to work hard. They did it all--tailoring, baking, house cleaning and more, eventually settling into careers as a taxi driver and nurse. My mother, like her other four siblings pursued college degrees and became a Nurse Practitioner. But none of them ever stopped making. As a very young child, my mother and grandmother made a lot of my and my sister’s clothes. I remember my mother doing macramé hangings, making T-Shirt decals, and painting. My father came to America on a college scholarship to study civil engineering and economics, but he was also an avid photographer whose pictures rivaled the pros.

As kids, my sister and I would constantly be working on something. Elaborate cities for our Smurf and Snoopy figurines that would span the basement floor. Endless paper dolls and fashions. I created my own comic books and my sister wrote plays. As I look back, it is no surprise that my sister and I pursued creative fields as adults.

I am grateful to my family for giving me the spirit of ingenuity. To this day, my first thought if I want  or need something is, “How do I make it?”.

There is a deep satisfaction I feel in creating and making. For  in those moments, I am communing with the Divine.