This First Person article is written by Ridhwanlai Badmos, a high school student in Winnipeg. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ.

When I was four, my family and I left the only home we had known in Nigeria and moved to Canada. My parents wanted a better future for our family, and after a few years of moving around, we settled in Winnipeg.

When we first arrived, I could only speak Yoruba. My mom encouraged us to speak our native tongue at home, but it was hard when I was learning English at school.

Little by little, I lost bits of my Nigerian culture as I focused more on fitting into Canada. At cultural parties, I chose to wear jeans instead of my traditional clothes. Without Yoruba, I felt like I couldn't relate with fellow Nigerians in my community. Even my taste buds changed. My mom always tells me I used to love amala, but now I can't even stand the taste of the yam dish. I'd gotten too used to fast food burgers and other sugary treats.

But one day, I woke up feeling bold. My mom often sewed clothes and had ordered some Nigerian fabric to make a beautiful blue shirt for me. I was supposed to save it for an upcoming cultural celebration, but I really loved it and couldn't wait to wear it. So, after a few weeks I decided to wear it to school. I felt nervous because I hadn't seen anyone else wearing anything like it at school. I didn't want to be singled out, but I whispered to myself, "Today's going to be a great day." 

Throughout that day my heart was pounding, yet I couldn't stop smiling. I was ready for a few snickers here and there, but I received nothing but curiosity and kindness. It made me wonder, why had I been so afraid to wear my traditional clothing?

A few months later, I was tapped by my vice-principal to help create a calendar of all the holidays and celebrations our school's student population took part in. I also participated in other diversity, equity and inclusion activities organized by the school division. For example, I read out loud from a children's book celebrating Black boyhood to younger students in the division. 

While our school division initially led the initiative on these activities, I was inspired and wanted more, so I decided that it was time for us — the students in my school — to take action and have a council that represented the diversity in our student population. That's how my friends and I started the school's Diversity, Equity and Inclusion Council in 2022. 

That same year, a friend showed me a TikTok of students at another school celebrating their cultures and wearing their traditional clothing. She said, "We should have that," and I thought it was a great idea. She brought the idea to our council, and after a few discussions, we decided to make the idea even bigger and better by hosting our school's first ever cultural month that May.

Throughout the month, we served different cultural foods in the canteen every Wednesday. We had South Asian samosas, Filipino pancit and Nigerian puff puff. Some teachers were so impressed that they started having their own potlucks in their classrooms. 

We interviewed fellow students about what cultural diversity meant to them and projected these videos throughout our school. We also had classroom discussions where students talked about cultural stereotypes and could ask questions about anything they'd been curious about without the fear of being cancelled. For example, one student asked me if I was from a tribe and if it was OK to use that word or if it meant something like a savage. I happily explained that it was fine to use that word in the proper context. For example, Nigeria has four main tribes, and I am from the Yoruba tribe. 

At one of the events, my friends Shafia and Ushna explained why they wear hijabs and their experiences with racial profiling in Canada. Even though I'm a Muslim man with family members who wear hijabs, I hadn't thought too deeply about how their experiences might be different from mine. It gave me a newfound respect for the women in my life. 

It taught me to sometimes take a pause in my everyday life and to be inquisitive and curious about others and their stories. I shouldn't feel shy to seek knowledge.

I believe these conversations made a real difference for our school in talking about race, identity and religion. I often heard students talking about their cultural identity in the halls on my way to class and sharing jokes with each other regarding similarities between their own communities. 

On the final day of our cultural month, we asked all students to come to school in their traditional clothes. Leading up to it, several students asked me, "What should I wear?" 

I told them to wear what they felt represented them. 

"But what if I don't have anything to wear?" 

I told them to bring something that they felt spoke to their cultural identity. Something that felt like them. Perhaps it was a flag, something from back home, or even a favourite stuffed animal; culture means so much more than just where we're from.

I had never been one to care about my appearance, but on that special day, I spent over an hour making sure my hair was combed, my tiny mustache hairs shaved, and that my buba and sokoto were ironed. 

Buba and sokoto are the names for the shirt and trousers typically worn with the agbada, a traditional four-piece Nigerian attire consisting of a flowing robe, undervest, trousers and a hat.

When I got to school, I was pleasantly surprised. Compared to the usual jeans, sweats and t-shirts in neutral colours, I was hit with a sea of colourful clothes and joyful expressions. The outfits I saw that day were vibrant, colourful and spoke of history and culture — from Ghanian to Pakistani, Japanese, Indigenous and more. You could almost hear them whispering stories, telling you about the things they've seen and the places they've been. 

It was a humbling moment for me as well, finding out about all the places in the world the students at our school come from. 

People were talking, laughing and mingling. The whole experience felt magical, almost like living art. 

It was touching when students and staff approached me afterward to say how much our initiative helped them realize the importance of their culture in their own lives. That's why we brought back the same event, but bigger, in May the next year. This year, I wore agbada. 

Because of this experience, my thinking about the meaning of culture and cultural identity has shifted. While culture includes clothing, traditions, food and so on, our culture is ultimately who we are. It's like a home, but your home isn't your house. Your home is the place that makes you feel safe and valued. Where your loved ones are. It took me being away from my home in Nigeria to realize that. 

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For more stories about the experiences of Black Canadians — from anti-Black racism to success stories within the Black community — check out Being Black in Canada, a CBC project Black Canadians can be proud of.