Black History Today: Kadin Coleman, beloved young leader with the wisdom of an old soul
/Black History Today, created by Marcus Harden in honor of Black History Month, pays tribute to the living legacy of Black history in our community and beyond and recognizes the people among us who are boldly shaping the future.
A Note from Marcus:
This year’s theme came to me while sitting among those being honored, surrounded by faces that reflected one of my favorite truths: “I am but a shallow reflection of the light that’s been shined into me.”
In the universe’s timing, the decision to center both youth and elders felt inevitable. I wanted to offer flowers, and a battery. To honor them, and to help sustain them.
I write this just days after another senseless shooting shook our community. A young man lost. A graduate of a program I helped build. A student at my alma mater. The grief ripples through people I know, people I love, and people I’ve never met but still carry.
Because of that, this work feels urgent.
My call to us is simple: speak life, love, and accountability into the highest version of our youth. Hold them to their best—and when they fall, meet them with love so their stumble is not fatal. Teach them to face struggle, anger, and rage by seeing the light in others, not dimming it.
Two lives were lost. Many more were fractured. Still, light always breaks through.
So we begin by honoring young people—the once and future kings and queens—making history today.
“There are some children who arrive carrying memory, as if the ancestors trusted them with something unfinished.”
By Baionne and Jaycee Coleman
Our beloved son,
Kadin Akai Idris Coleman
During Black History Month, people often ask what it means to honor history.
For us, the answer has always been you.
You entered this world early, at twenty-nine weeks, barely three pounds, small enough to rest in the palm of our hands. In the NICU, surrounded by machines built for urgency and fear, you were calm. You breathed on your own. You needed no surgeries. You needed nourishment, patience, and time. Babies larger than you, older than you, did not make it home. You did. Quietly. Intentionally. As if you already understood something about staying.
Every day, we read to you. Before you were born, we read medical journals out loud, what your body needed to weigh, when babies were considered viable, what had to be true for you to arrive safely. We did not speak fear over you. We spoke knowledge. And you listened. You were born at twenty-nine weeks, three pounds and one ounce, exactly where you needed to be.
You were released from the NICU six weeks early because you were thriving too loudly for their expectations. Millions of dollars in medical bills could not measure what it meant to watch you choose life with such ease.
You began reading before the age of two. Words were never decoration for you; they were tools. By three, you were using words like discrimination, not to impress, but because you already understood fairness and harm. Language became how you named the world and how you tried to heal it.
Your name knew this before any of us did.
Kadin—companion, confidant, spirit of battle.
Akai—warrior, protector, one who fights bravely and heals.
Idris—the studious one, the instructor, the keeper of the pen.
A warrior who listens.
A protector who heals.
A scholar who leads with wisdom.
You have always stood up for others, especially those who were marginalized or bullied, even while being bullied yourself for your depth, your maturity, your refusal to perform childhood the way others expected. When others wanted to fight, you wanted conversation. When others chose cruelty, you chose reason. When a biological father chose to abandon you, you chose love and forgiveness. That made growing up harder. It also made you who you are.
Your faith has always been deep and sincere. You loved God early, and because of that love, cruelty and racism never made sense to you. You could not reconcile them with what you knew to be true. That dissonance shaped you, not into bitterness, but into action. You fed the unhoused on weekends with your uncle. You led faith and race seminars for youth and adults. You wrote poetry and read it aloud at marches and protests. You facilitated conversations across difference with humility far beyond your years for esteemed authors such as Dr. Bettina Love and Dr. Gholdy Muhammad. You curated a community event bringing over 300 Global Majority people to the aquarium for free. You’ve done more before 18 than most accomplish in a lifetime.
Leadership keeps finding you, even though you never look for it.
You row varsity crew, often the only Black male in the boat. You advocate for the ocean and for young people through the Seattle Aquarium. Water has always been your refuge, swimming, fishing, rowing, returning again and again to what steadies you. You love marine life not as a hobby, but as relationship with your Creator.
An educator once wrote about you:
“Beyond his impressive résumé, I want to speak to Kadin’s integrity and emotional depth… Our community is better, safer, and more secure when Kadin is present. He leads not for recognition, but because he genuinely wants others to feel safe, seen, and supported.”
That is what others feel when you walk into a room. Children feel it. Adults feel it. Safety, humility, steadiness. You are an anchor without trying to be.
And this moment, this deep, unconditional love, has never been held by just one of us.
Your chosen father, Jaycee Coleman, sees you too. He once said:
“As you turn 18 I reflect on what it means to be a man, become an adult, or come of age. One thing was very clear from early on; you were an old soul. As the elders would say, ‘he’s been here before.’ You’re insightful, reflective, justice-oriented, faithful, forgiving, loyal, and protective over the ones you love. Navigating the complexities of being a Black man in America can be soul-shattering, but you’ve taken every challenge head on, grew from your missteps, didn’t let systems define you, and kept your joy through it all. You aren’t a success story in the making—you, Kadin, are its embodiment in the present. One of the greatest men I know. I know the future is in good hands.”
We want you to sit with that.
Not as pressure.
Not as expectation.
But as truth spoken by someone who loves you and has watched you grow into yourself with courage and grace.
You are graduating with a 3.8 GPA. You have earned merit scholarships. And still, gaps remain, not because you did not work hard enough, but because systems do not always reward brilliance and heart fairly. Know this: the presence of gaps does not diminish the truth of who you are or where you are headed.
You are a protector of your siblings, respectful to elders, quick to help, sometimes too quick. One of your great lessons right now is learning that help must be invited to be holy. Even this growth speaks to your tenderness.
You are humble—so humble that you do not yet see yourself as fully as the rest of us do.
That will come. Until then, let this stand in for sight:
You are brilliant.
You are beautiful.
You are deeply loved.
Black history did not end in the past. It continues in living, breathing, choosing. It continues in a boy born early who listened before he spoke. In a young man who fights for others without armor. In a scholar who carries a pen, a conscience, and a love for the ocean.
Wherever you go next—college, boats, classrooms, shorelines—carry this with you:
You do not owe the world perfection.
You do not owe history sacrifice.
You owe yourself honesty, joy, and rest.
We have always been proud of you.
Your Dad is proud of you.
You are surrounded by love that will never waver.
You were listening long before you were speaking, and the world has been catching up to you ever since.
We will always be your home.
With all our love,
Mom & Dad
Original artwork created by Devin Chicras for the South Seattle Emerald.
