Being African American and Jewish, I have plenty of ancestors

Cameron Boyce, though young in years, spoke with the depth of an old soul when he declared: “Being African American and Jewish, I have plenty of ancestors and family members that I can look to for strength and, more importantly, for a grateful outlook on life.” In this utterance, we find a truth that belongs to all peoples and all generations: that the roots of our past give nourishment to the branches of our present. His words are not merely about heritage; they are about the eternal strength that flows from the memory of those who endured before us.

The meaning of his words is radiant and layered. Boyce understood that identity is not only personal but ancestral. To be both African American and Jewish is to carry in one’s veins the memory of peoples who have known oppression, struggle, and hardship, yet who also forged cultures of resilience, creativity, and faith. When he speaks of “looking to ancestors,” he is reminding us that we do not face life’s storms alone. The strength of those who came before flows through us, whispering: “You too can endure, for we endured.” Yet beyond strength, he speaks of gratitude—the higher wisdom of not merely surviving, but giving thanks for the gift of life, no matter how hard-won it may be.

The origin of this insight lies in the histories that shaped his heritage. The African American story is one of survival through the brutality of slavery, the humiliation of segregation, and the long struggle for justice. Yet from those wounds came spirituals, courage, and enduring hope. The Jewish story, too, is one of perseverance through exile, persecution, and the horror of the Holocaust—yet also of unbreakable faith, of wisdom passed down through Torah and tradition, of families clinging to life and rebuilding with courage. To be heir to both is to inherit two great rivers of survival and gratitude, flowing together into the soul.

History provides us with vivid illustrations. Recall Frederick Douglass, born into chains yet rising to become a voice of freedom, his life a testament to the strength of African American resilience. Or consider Anne Frank, who in the darkness of hiding wrote words not of bitterness but of hope, embodying the Jewish spirit of gratitude even in the face of unspeakable terror. These are not distant figures, but living examples of what Boyce expressed: that from ancestors and family, one may draw both courage and perspective, strength and thanksgiving.

The imagery in Boyce’s words is deeply evocative: to “look to ancestors” is to gaze not backward in sorrow but forward with strength. Their trials are not chains upon us, but foundations beneath us. And gratitude is the crown placed upon this inheritance. For to remember the suffering of one’s forebears without bitterness, and to draw from it a grateful outlook on life, is to transform pain into wisdom and survival into victory. This is why Boyce’s words resound like ancient counsel passed down to future generations.

The lesson for us is clear: never forget your roots. In moments of weakness, remember those who bore far heavier burdens, and let their memory lift you. In moments of despair, recall that you stand because others refused to fall. And in every moment, practice gratitude, for to live in bitterness is to dishonor the strength of those who endured for you. Gratitude does not erase suffering, but it redeems it, transforming the inheritance of pain into an inheritance of wisdom.

Practically, this means seeking to learn the stories of your people, your family, your ancestors. Speak with elders, read their histories, honor their traditions. Let their endurance shape your own. And beyond remembrance, live with gratitude—not only in words but in action, by offering kindness, by working for justice, by being a light in your own generation as they were in theirs.

So let Cameron Boyce’s words be remembered as timeless teaching: draw strength from your ancestors, and let gratitude guide your outlook on life. For the trials of those before you are not weights, but wings; and their endurance is your inheritance. To live with such awareness is to walk not alone, but hand in hand with generations, carrying their strength and passing it on to those who will come after.