When I was a kid in Oakland in 1972, ashamed of my Afro, my dad was trying hard to instill African pride in us girls and presented my sister and I with two brand new daishikis. I was a brat, burst into tears, and told him I hated it. My sweet sister smiled, said thank you and put it on. That’s us in the bottom pic; she’s wearing hers and I’m not. When a few years ago I found this perfect vintage 1960s daishiki, I was so excited because it gave me a chance to redeem myself.











