The first time I actually addressed the negative perceptions I carried about myself, I was a terrified college student. I’d caught the movie “Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit” on TV one night, released years before, but I’d never watched it in full. Something about Lauryn Hill’s character — she played a Catholic schoolgirl in a “rough” neighborhood in California’s Bay Area — gripped me immediately. Her brand of Black teen girl rebellion spoke to me, pinpointing my frustrations.
Growing up in a cramped New York City apartment in the ’90s, my Saturday mornings were loud and eventful. The comforting aroma of Nigerian-style eggs with plantain summoned my siblings and me to the kitchen. We devoured meals to the lively, echoing soundtrack of my mother’s long-distance phone calls in her native tongue. Despite it all, my father could not be disturbed, especially if an Eddie Murphy movie or stand-up special was on television. He’d say between throaty belly laughs, “Don’t forget to read your book,” with his eyes glued to the screen. Weekends were not an excuse to lose track of our academic journey, clearly.
To our parents, who emigrated to America from Nigeria in the 1980s, academic overachievement was the standard. I already knew I wanted to be a writer, but the decision was solidified when I began devouring Essence and Vibe magazines at my aunt’s house. Print media was popping back then, and I was enamored with how each story amplified Black art, music and celebrity culture.
On those boisterous weekend mornings, my parents also spent time trading ideas about our destinies — discussing how my siblings and I would navigate our journeys to being in medicine or law. There was no room for our opinions on the subject. While their approach seemed a little draconian at the time, I now understand that they wanted their children to be successful after all they’d been through. And that could only happen if we got a “safe” job.
I was miserable at the thought of this, yet the idea of letting my parents down horrified me. They’d fled their home country, separated themselves from their families, with no money. They were fueled by the dream of giving their children a “better life.” So before I was 13, my destiny had been selected, and I was determined to give them bragging rights to say: “My daughter is the best nurse in America.” When it came time, I enrolled in college as a nursing major.
Being a first-generation Nigerian-American teen came with unique challenges. Straddling two worlds, I didn’t feel like I completely belonged to either. Navigating my cultural identity was heavy, and it involved a battle between what I wanted to do versus what I was “supposed” to do. In college, I fantasized about writing professionally while studying nursing as diligently as possible. I quickly learned to cocoon myself into invisibility while self-doubt and inadequacy settled in.
During that time, I caught “Sister Act 2” on cable. The sequel starred Whoopi Goldberg as an undercover nun who led a music program at a “troubled” high school. I was transfixed by the way Hill’s character, Rita, sang. And I empathized deeply with her desire to immerse herself in this art versus a useful trade or the traditional education that her mother so desperately wanted for her. She was stunningly self-aware, and it inspired me.
Rita’s mother, played by the iconic Sheryl Lee Ralph, echoed the sentiment of so many Black and immigrant parents who sacrificed so much so their kids could have what they considered better. “If you want to win in life, you keep your nose in those books and out of the crowd,” Ralph said in the film to Hill, sounding just like my parents. And like Rita, I felt stifled by their expectations.
When I watched Rita ultimately gather the courage to defy her mother and compete in the singing competition at her school, my feelings of inadequacy began to dissolve. It blew my mind. I had never seen a young Black girl believe in her power and act on it in that way. Her resistance spoke to me at a crucial moment in my life and became the defining moment that re-shaped my ability to take risks. Rita gave me the permission to rebel.
When I entered college, my mother was a single mom, like Rita’s, determined to ensure my future was set. For years, I struggled through different courses I didn’t care about with decent grades. In the registrar’s office, I could still hear her plea in my head as I decided to change my major from nursing to English. It was a decision I’d hide until graduation.
I wanted to emulate the sweet-faced Black teen girl with braids like mine, who dared to disrupt the internalized messages of self-doubt. For me, “Sister Act 2” went beyond the buoyant performances that made it a classic, meme-worthy movie years later.
Hill’s Rita won, literally, by owning the mic. Her rhymes were replete with agency and powerful vocals, which she sang with conviction. It was a master class in Black teen joy. A bonus for me was that it was laced with hip hop flavor and a love for God.
“Mom, I am going to be a writer,” I told her at graduation. The sight of me in a cap and gown filled her with pride, and thankfully, it left little room to negate my achievement. She was so happy. There was no greater feeling. When I published my first piece in Essence, my mom was over the moon, bragging to her friends about her daughter’s first published article — in such a venerable outlet, at that. Still, the Nigerian immigrant mom in her never took a day off, so it wasn’t long before she politely inquired where I would be getting a master’s degree.
On the 30th anniversary of “Sister Act 2,” the film’s legacy can’t be confined to the ’90s or Hollywood’s dismissal of it. Even now, when I watch it as a grown woman, it is a reminder to self-reflect and identify where I let complacency or conformity to the expectations of others sneak in.
It’s easy to develop blind spots in adulthood. If I find myself faltering, I simply follow what the students in the movie do before they perform at the state competition. I “take off my robe” and peel away any layers that don’t align with my authentic self. And now, a constant state of rebellion is my favorite place to be.