Americans for the Arts

I was born and raised in West Philadelphia. Yes … like the song. On the day I was born, my Nigerian pharmacist turned American accountant father, my US-born IRS specialist sometimes saleswoman mother, and my then-teenage and new to the US sister gave me names—a hospital-room nod to traditional Yoruba naming ceremonies. One of my many names, Abiola, roughly indicates a child that brings wealth and honor, and my parents always treated me as though I could.

Growing up, I was in and out of braces and the hospital, stood out physically, and was top of the class. Elementary school was rough. Still, I saw every new encounter as a potential friendship and had an insatiable desire to learn and create—which my parents fostered. When I’d say as a child that I wanted to be a writer, dancer, artist, and veterinarian, they’d say “ok.” At school, I was whatever label peers landed on for the day, but in our home, I was a writer, sculptor, dancer, singer, researcher, and more.

I told my parents when I was 3 that I wanted to go to “real school” and they made it happen. I told them when I was in the third grade where I wanted go to high school, and they told me if I got the grades, we’d make it happen. While I received continuous full scholarships, my parents worked nonstop and sacrificed to pay my mountains of medical bills; keep me supplied with the expensive uniforms, books, and materials that are required to access the quality education that people erroneously refer to as a “free ride,” and allow my curiosity and creativity to thrive while simultaneously sheltering me from the reality of our neighborhood, and later our economic status.

In 2004, I embarked on a new journey: college. I packed my bags and moved to St. Louis, Missouri to pursue degrees in fine art and pre-veterinary medicine, and to experience culture shock. I spent my first year hearing about the dangers of the city, being wooed by campus activity after campus activity, and missing my home.

Somewhere around my sophomore or junior year, I discovered the St. Louis variety performance scene (burlesque, pole, aerial, fire, etc.), and was enthralled. I started taking classes in this and traditional dance and acting. I started distrusting limitations (physical and non) and fell in love with movement. I also fell in love with St. Louis through the lens of my variety friends—St. Louis has such a rich cultural history and such a painful story of disinvestment and continuous misrepresentation.

By the time I graduated, I’d started showing my work in local galleries, teaching pole, performing on stages around the region, and really understanding various St. Louis neighborhoods and art scenes. I’d made an amazing group of friends that I considered family, I had a few jobs that directly related to my creative work and afforded me the time to practice, and I’d decided to stay.

The city I had come to love did not match the narrative I’d been fed upon arrival. The talent and current were here to experience and grow the bustling streets with music in the air and food from every culture and more that I’d initially missed of Philadelphia. I would catch glimpses of that vision in an underground gallery show, or a Saturday night burlesque or variety show, or at a cultural festival, and I vowed to be a part of growing it.

In August of 2014, the killing of Mike Brown Jr. shook St. Louis, and me along with it. Over the course of the next year, I found myself awakening to systemic oppression that I had willfully ignored and swallowed for much of my adulthood, and the huge toll it had taken on our country, this city, and me personally—that is, I awoke to the reality that it wasn’t enough to combat it with mere exceptionalism. I began addressing this in my creative work, but also began to investigate how I could contribute to change and equity in a bigger way. For most of my time in St. Louis, I’ve had one foot in the formal arts, working in museums, galleries, artist studios, and the other in entertainment, working in event venues and on stages. How could I marry my skills to the bigger issue? This desire became a need as I witnessed the level of medical care that my father received as a naturalized citizen and went through the process of losing him in 2015. It didn’t matter that he had multiple terminal degrees and had contributed over 40 years of his life to this country. He spoke with an accent and was treated as if information about his medical care was entirely beyond him.

It was in this headspace that I received a job posting from a friend in 2016. Our local arts agency was looking for someone to manage their gallery and organize Culture/Shift, an upcoming national conference on Community Arts, Social Justice, and Cultural Policy. This felt like that opportunity for greater contribution that I’d been looking for. It was. I learned so much, met so many amazing people who were doing incredible work in their own communities, and was energized about the work that I was a part of here in St. Louis.

At the end of 2016, another position opened up. This one would be administering our artist funding programs and contributing to a cultural planning initiative for the region. As an artist, being a representative voice in the process for artist funding felt huge. Our agency was going through a period of great change and this felt like another step towards being a bigger part of the change that I needed to see in the world.

These steps were winding, but they have led me here, to my current role as a Program Manager in Grants, where I’ve had the opportunity to contribute to policy and practices that have shaped funding for individual artists in our region.

This post is part of the Own Your Past, Shape Your Future blog salon.