That afternoon my mother had brought me the roses. "Save them for my funeral," I'd said.

It's taken me 40-something years, but I embrace the curl. My littlest daughter has the same hair. She likes it when my hair is curly, so I wear it for her.

My dad was an incredibly brave man, completely dedicated to his family, with a love for all. If I could be half the dad he was, to my children, then that will be an achievement in itself. He died 14 months exactly to the start of the 2012 Olympics. I hope he will be watching and waving his big union jack in London from somewhere else. I love you so much dad.

I came back to work when my children were two months old. At that early age, they seem to have little awareness of anybody but their Raggedy Ann dolls, so it wasn't a matter of them missing me. I was missing them.

I have two younger brothers, and I know my parents have spoken to them about driving and interacting with police. They didn't have those conversations with me, but they did have conversations about being exceptional black people.

My parents would frisk me before family events. Before weddings, funerals, bar mitzvahs, and what have you. Because if they didn't, then the book would be hidden inside some pocket or other and as soon as whatever it was got under way I'd be found in a corner. That was who I was...that was what I did. I was the kid with the book.