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I was in second grade when I realized that my father’s incarceration would impact me for the rest of my life. It was “current event day,” a day when students reported news clippings of the latest news to the rest of the class. My classmate stood up front and began describing a robbery that took place over the weekend. A large Black man about 6’4” had entered the local Seven Eleven with a towel wrapped around his hand, demanding cash and threatening that he had a gun. No one was hurt; the man was unsuccessful and was actually unarmed. The man was in custody. When my classmate read the name, I froze; “Larry Jeter”, my father. You see, I grew up in a rural, predominately white town in southern California, and not only were there not many Black folks, but word traveled fast in that small town. I sat in the front of the class and could feel my back burning from the stares of my classmates. I looked down at my desk nametag that read “Nicole Jeter” in perfectly written font. Just in case anyone was unsure; I felt my name tag made our connection loud and clear. This talk draws from book chapters on the presenters lived experience.