“Yeah, she’s my mom,” I mutter.

The thing about being Rosalie’s daughter is that people either love or hate her, and they all want me to know about it. I guess that’s what happens when your mom is the founder of the biggest civil rights movement to hit Harlem in decades. See Us is similar to Black Lives Matter. It takes aim at police brutality, racial profiling, and an unjust prison system. But See Us specifically targets communities in Harlem.

My mom started it the year I was born, before the Black Lives Matter movement. The movement took off faster than anyone expected. And before she knew it, her five-person operation became a citywide movement with thousands of members. They organize marches, boycotts, and basically an all-points assault on the establishment.

“I saw her on Good Morning America a few weeks ago. I love her! She’s so well spoken. She’s grown into quite a divisive figure, and to that I say, ‘Right on!’ We need more sassy women like her.”

Mr. Gunderson thinks he just gave my mom a compliment. But I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t take it that way. I can practically hear her now: “Does my skin color lead you to believe I would be anything other than well spoken? And did you just call me sassy?”

Just before he moves on to the next name, he mumbles to himself, “Rosalie Bosia’s daughter . . . Gosh, what must that be like?”

What’s it like?

Well . . . while other kids made houses with Popsicle sticks, I made posters to free unjustly convicted prisoners. When other kids were playing video games, I was studying Black history with flash cards. And when my classmates were going to their first school dance, I was going door to door with my mom to get people to register to vote.

And yes, many people in Harlem know me, but don’t get it twisted; that doesn’t mean I have a lot of friends. It’s hard to make friends when you invite them over but then your mom won’t let them eat until they tell her who was the first Black woman to refuse to sit in the back of the bus. And God help you if you said “Rosa Parks,” because that is most definitely not the right answer.

I envied the kids whose parents let them get away with knowing only the basics of Black history: Who is Madam C. J. Walker and what is Juneteenth? My mother was not having it. By the time I was ten, I knew more about Black history than most of my teachers.

That’s what it means to be Rosalie’s child. And now, I want out.