When I was a kid, there was no shortage of new Easter dresses, patent leather Mary Janes with short white socks, and frilly bonnets to mark the holiday. Think pastel pink, yellow, and green linen with delicately embroidered details.

Oh, and there were Easter speeches, the products of hours of memorizing and practicing, that we recited nervously in front of the entire congregation. Improbably, it always seemed like there were a million pairs of eyes on us as we recited the special words slowly as we got our bearings, then quickly to avoid forgetting, and finally a mishmash until that moment of relief when we finished. Thank goodness I hadn’t forgotten!



Invariably, some kids did. As you sat sweating in the pews until it was your turn, you wondered why we did it. In retrospect, I’m convinced that in addition to celebrating the holiday, we were being elevated: a bunch of Black children in their finery standing both sheepishly and proudly in the spotlight reciting poetry and prose. If we could do that, what couldn’t we do?

There were giant baskets laden with solid (great) or hollow (disappointing) chocolate bunnies, marshmallowy peeps, art supplies, stuffed animals, and piles of candy. Over the years, these treats went from resting on a bed of plastic to paper grass. The Easter Bunny went green like the rest of us.

As the Reverend’s first grandchild, Easter meant dyeing hundreds of eggs with my Grandmama. Even though there were mounds, that didn’t stop me from slapping on those tiny stickers or drawing squiggles with waxy crayons.

Searching for those eggs was never my thing. Eating them, however, was.

Happy Easter!

Extra, eggstra!