I didn’t grow up celebrating Juneteenth.

I was born and raised in Los Angeles, thousands of miles from Galveston, Texas—and a world away from the stories of delayed emancipation that Juneteenth honors. The textbooks didn’t mention it. The teachers didn’t teach it. But as a Black woman, a mother, and a retired juvenile court judge, I’ve spent my life understanding the difference between laws written and justice lived.

Now, in retirement, I live in Dallas—just a few hours from where the last enslaved people finally heard they were free. And here, Juneteenth isn’t just a chapter in a book. It’s in the land. It’s in the elders. It’s in the stories we pass down and the freedom we continue to pursue.

Texas was the last Confederate state to hear the news of emancipation. Union General Gordon Granger arrived in Galveston more than two years after the Emancipation Proclamation and declared all enslaved people free. That delay tells us something profound about justice: it can be promised, even written into law—but still withheld in practice.

I think often about my godmother, Kathryn Mitchell, who will turn 104 this July. She was born and raised right here in Dallas. When she tells stories of her childhood—Black children sitting on backless benches while white students had desks—you hear the echo of that delay. She wasn’t taught about Juneteenth as a girl. But she made it her mission to teach it as a woman.

Ms. Mitchell became a teacher and community activist. She led Juneteenth picnics at her church, where children learned what she was never taught: that freedom, hard-won and too long delayed, is worth remembering—and celebrating. She turned silence into education, erasure into storytelling. That’s the spirit of Juneteenth. It’s not just about history. It’s about legacy.

Living in Dallas now, I see that legacy everywhere. I see it in the elders who still tell their stories. In the parades and concerts across Fair Park. In the church bells that ring out at noon. In families gathering in parks with barbecue, music, and red soda to honor the joy of liberation. In pageants and poetry slams and storytelling circles that remind us: we are not only descendants of struggle—we are descendants of strength.

Reverend Peter Johnson, a civil rights veteran here in Dallas, once said, “To understand today, you need to understand yesterday.” Juneteenth teaches us that justice doesn’t always arrive on time, but when it does, it must be celebrated—and protected.

Opal Lee, the “Grandmother of Juneteenth” at 98 years old, helped make this a national holiday. She walked for years to get it done. Her message is simple: “Nobody’s free until we’re all free.”

This holiday is about more than looking back—it’s about how we move forward. It’s about how we honor those who waited… and those who refused to wait any longer.

For me, as a mother, a retired judge, and a daughter of Texas by way of California, Juneteenth is a reminder: freedom is not just a date—it’s a duty. A duty to tell the truth. To teach the next generation. To keep walking, even when the road is long.

And if my godmother Kathryn, at nearly 104, can still share stories under the Texas sun, then the least we can do is listen—and carry them with us.

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