Legacy That Moves With Me Daily

January has always been my “preserve month.” It’s the month I push through. It’s mundane, it’s heavy, and it’s the month I lost my father 15 years ago. Seasonal depression doesn’t make it any easier, but every year I remind myself that making it through January is its own kind of victory. Before I step into the energy of February, I pause to acknowledge the weight I carry and the strength it takes to move forward.

My father was the biggest inspiration in my life. The pain of losing him is what pushed me toward my purpose, and the lessons he left behind still guide me in how I serve women today.

My Dad was a trailblazer. In the 1960s, he was the only Black singer in two all‑white bands — The Impalas and The Townsmen. His voice, his presence, and his talent were the heartbeat of their performances, drawing crowds who loved the sound he brought to the stage. But even with all he contributed, the world around him didn’t always make space for him easily.

I remember him getting tears in his eyes when he told my brothers and me how his bandmates once refused to perform at a local university unless he was allowed to sing. They stood with him when it mattered most.

Years later, in Tales from the Bandstand by J. Steve Strosnider, one of the surviving band members reflected on the racism they encountered during that time. He recalled how a local university reacted when they learned the band had a Black singer. The book describes it this way:

“Buell still has a great deal of animosity toward an unnamed local university who, when discovering that The Townsmen had a black singer, was told ‘Make sure your darkie uses the bathroom in the back.’ Buell’s resentment regarding this injustice remains to this day.”

But I remember the university, because my Dad told me that story when I was young. And I’ll never forget the moment it came full circle.

When I graduated years later from a local university, my father cried the entire time. He hugged me, kissed me, and held me with so much pride and victory — as if both of us had crossed a finish line he once wasn’t allowed to approach.

And when I think about that moment, I’m reminded of everything he poured into us growing up. My Dad taught my brothers and me everything he knew about Black history. He instilled in us a deep pride in our culture and a conviction that we should never let anyone discourage us from becoming who we were meant to be. He used to always say, “You can do anything that you put your mind to.”

His lessons didn’t just shape my confidence — they shaped my path. I carried his words with me all the way through college, where I became a first‑generation college student on both sides of my family. I earned one of my degrees in African‑American History, and I walked across that stage not only with pride, but debt‑free, because I maintained scholarships all four years. That determination, that refusal to shrink, that commitment to excellence — all of it was nurtured by my father.

And when I realized I didn’t like what was being served at certain tables, I built my own. Because he taught me to believe I could do anything I put my mind to.

That’s the kind of legacy I carry into my work. That’s the kind of history I honor. And as we step into Black History Month, I’m reminded that history isn’t just what’s written in books — it’s also the stories we inherit, the resilience we embody, and the victories we carry forward.

This month, I’m celebrating Black history — both the well‑known and the deeply personal — and I invite you to join me. The truth is, I celebrate Black history every month because I’m continuously teaching our 7‑year‑old son about who he is, where he comes from, and the legacy he carries. If you’d like to learn and honor alongside us, subscribe to my email newsletter to take part in our February Black History Trivia and enjoy special discounts and prizes along the way.

Love & Light,
Crystal Napier
Owner, Renee’s Boutique