My daddy was a man of the people — all people.

When I was born, he was serving as minister of the Japanese Baptist Church in Seattle. Not long after, he and my mom purchased our family home in the Central Area/Capitol Hill neighborhood, where I was raised. I went to predominantly Black schools, and I grew up surrounded by people whose experiences and cultures were different from mine — and yet, in my home, I was taught that those differences were to be respected, embraced, and celebrated.

Daddy lived that truth. He was involved in advocacy for low-income housing. He worked to support minority groups at Seattle Central Community College, helping establish spaces for African American, Asian, Gay, Disabled, and other communities to gather, connect, and find strength. He believed deeply in the power of people coming together.

Though never at the front of the line, Daddy stood in solidarity. He was connected with the NAACP, the Urban League, and even the Black Panthers in his quiet, indirect way — always supporting the push for justice, equality, and community strength. He was also one of the founders of the Crisis Clinic, making sure people in crisis had a lifeline of care and compassion.

I witnessed all of this growing up. I watched my daddy stand with people from all walks of life. I saw my mom create a home of peace and stability so that he could pour himself into the world outside our doors. Together, they showed me what it means to care for others, to serve with humility, and to honor every human being with dignity.

I was raised to embrace all people. To respect differences in culture, mindset, and life experience. And I carry that with me today — in my heart, in my work, and in the way I move through this world.

My daddy was a man of the people. His legacy is alive in me. 🌻

But his story began long before I was born. Daddy was raised in Agate, Colorado, in a small farming community where white, Asian, and Black farmers worked the land side by side. From his earliest days, he understood the value of diversity, resilience, and hard work.

When he and my mother married, they faced discrimination as an interracial couple. Yet, they stood strong together, choosing love over fear and commitment over prejudice. Their strength in the face of those challenges only deepened their compassion for others — especially those who, like them, were pushed to the margins.

That legacy of love and inclusion continued into the next generation. My daughters and granddaughter are mixed with Black, and they were the absolute joy of their grandparents’ hearts. My mom passed before Kimora was born, but my daddy had the blessing of being her Gpa — and she adored him, calling him just that: Gpa. Their bond was precious, a living reminder that love transcends every barrier the world tries to put up.

That is the foundation I come from. That is the legacy I honor. And that is why I say with pride: my daddy was a man of the people — and I am forever his daughter.