The first time I saw a zebra in real life, I was 27 years old. My husband took me to a national park—something that felt like another world entirely. Growing up, I didn’t even know places like that existed.
I remember staring at the Cape Mountain Zebra. The boldness of its stripes, how it didn’t try to blend the black and white. It just was. And it was beautiful.
That moment came back to me years later while working on this artwork. I was trying to make sense of the many dualities in my life—poor but proud beginnings, interracial marriage, navigating class divides, and the complicated dance of faith and disappointment.
Calling an Uber for my mother brings it all rushing back—how people react to the journey between two different suburbs. The discomfort of being seen as an anomaly. How even at home, beggars ask for “the Madam,” never guessing that I’m the one they’re talking to.
But deeper still is what I had to confront inside myself: the parts that weren’t just poetic or pretty, but raw and protective. The dangerous instincts that rise when I feel my children, my peace, or my dignity are threatened. The part of me that doesn’t flinch anymore when the world turns cold.
I had to admit that sometimes, I wanted to disappear. That I felt the ache of being unsupported by the very communities I thought would carry me. And I had to let go of the illusion that only softness makes us lovable.
That’s when the zebra returned to me—not just as a memory, but as a message. I drew her not just as she is in the wild, but as she is in me: proudly striped, refusing to blend in, standing her ground.
This piece is called Silent Discomfort, Loud Pride because that’s what this journey has felt like. Uncomfortable. And proud. Grieving. And grateful. Quiet on the outside, roaring within.
And through this artwork, I remind myself: survival doesn’t mean shrinking. Sometimes, it means showing all your stripes.
Wit Love,
