On Feb. 1, 2026, Marique B. Moss put a much-needed story into the world with My Afro-Indigenous Superpower. It’s a children’s book, illustrated by Adair Carroll, that beautifully explores identity and belonging through a child’s eyes and level of understanding.
Meeka is a young, inquisitive Afro-Indigenous girl with curls that carry memory and a heart that holds two worlds at once. When she starts wondering where she belongs, her family doesn’t let that question linger. They anchor her in the knowledge that she doesn’t have to deny any part of herself to be whole.
Moss is a citizen of the Mandan, Hidatsa, and Arikara Nation and of African American descent. She centers Afro-Indigenous childhood as whole, joyful, and specific, without asking the character to “explain” herself for the reader’s comfort. The book is paired with additional learning supports that include extensive historical context, vocabulary, family discussion questions, lesson plans centered on identity and lateral kindness, and learning guides with social-emotional connections and reflection activities. My Afro-Indigenous Superpower is more than just a children’s book. It’s a resource for classrooms, libraries, and families seeking culturally grounded support for real conversations without placing the burden on children.
The timing of the book’s release couldn’t have been more perfect since it kicked off the beginning of Black History Month, when conversations about representation frequently default to the familiar and the easily packaged. My Afro-Indigenous Superpower widens that frame, making space for Afro-Indigenous readers who are routinely treated as afterthoughts, even in discussions about inclusion.
Red Pop! News was fortunate enough to gain a more personal understanding of My Afro-Indigenous Superpower from Marique B. Moss herself, as she discusses what parts of Meeka’s story come from lived experience, how she shaped the emotional arc for young readers, and what “representation done right” requires from the entire publishing pipeline.
Q.What parts of Meeka’s story came straight from your own experience and family teachings, and what did you have to invent to make the emotional arc land for kids?
Much of Meeka’s story comes directly from my own childhood and family teachings. Meeka is my childhood nickname, and I loved reading the book to my parents because they recognized the exact moments, timeframes, and relatives I was drawing from, and they smiled and laughed along. What makes it vulnerable for me is that it is truly my lived experience, just translated into a form kids can understand.
What I invented, but which is still very real, is the exact moment when Meeka learns she is both Black and Native. That moment was much harsher in my own life, so I softened it for young readers to show that questions about identity and harm can happen at both a micro and a macro level, and to help kids recognize when outward perceptions are shaping how they feel about themselves, while keeping the focus on belonging, confidence, and care.
Q. What do you hope Afro-Indigenous children feel after closing the book, and what do you hope non–Afro-Indigenous readers learn without turning Meeka into a “lesson”?
I hope Afro-Indigenous children close the book feeling seen, affirmed, and proud of who they are, without having to explain themselves to anyone. I want them to recognize pieces of their own families, questions, and joy in Meeka, and to walk away knowing their identity is whole and worthy exactly as it is.
For readers who are not Afro-Indigenous, I hope the story quietly widens their understanding without turning Meeka into a lesson or a symbol. My goal was to center her as a kid first, curious, loved, funny, thoughtful, and let empathy grow naturally through her experiences. If young readers finish the book with more care for complexity and a deeper respect for identities different from their own, then the story has done its work.
Q. Were there things that you decided belonged inside the book and others in the guides in terms of the history and language?
Yes, very intentionally. Inside the book, I centered Meeka’s emotional world and everyday family moments, weaving in themes like planting and learning through relationships so children can stay grounded in her story rather than in heavy explanations.
Some experiences need history to make sense. Meeka’s heritage includes slavery, boarding schools, assimilation, and historical trauma on both sides of her family, and I intentionally name what was erased when I was growing up, so children have language I never did. These are written in ways that help young readers understand the past without overwhelming them, inviting questions about the who, what, and where while keeping the story rooted in Meeka’s own timeline.
Q. When you’re working with classrooms or families, what are the most common misunderstandings you see around mixed identities, and how do you help adults handle those conversations without putting the burden on the child?
One of the most common misunderstandings I see is the idea that mixed identity has to be explained by the child. Kids get asked questions that adults think are harmless, but that slowly turn them into representatives of an entire culture. In the book, I model a different approach through Meeka’s parents, who step in to explain what certain terms mean and where her ancestors come from, especially when she is confused about certain words and why she is hearing the things she does at school, so she does not have to carry that responsibility on her own.
I know that feeling well, both as a teacher and from my own childhood. Growing up in Catholic school and being the only Brown kid in my grade, the moment a lesson on slavery started, I could feel heads slowly swivel in my direction, including the teacher, as I had suddenly been hired as the guest lecturer on the African diaspora. It was intimidating, but also strange in a way that sticks with you.
When I work with classrooms and families, I encourage adults to step in first, educate themselves, and create space for conversations about culture and history that do not rest on one child’s shoulders, even when the topics include words people are often hesitant to use in classrooms, like slavery, genocide, or assimilation. Hence, kids are just allowed to be children instead of being spokespeople for their identities.
Q. What does “representation done right” look like to you, not just in who gets published, but in who edits, illustrates, markets, and decides which stories are considered “universal”?
To me, representation done right is when the people shaping the book actually know the world the story comes from. Not just the author, but the editors, illustrators, marketers, and the people deciding what gets pushed forward. It means being able to walk into a process without having to explain your entire background before anyone understands why the story matters.
A lot of times, when people do not understand a story, they hesitate to support it or amplify it, and that is how entire experiences get left behind. That is how erasure keeps happening. It also takes someone willing to take a chance and say, I have not heard a story like this before, but it deserves to be shared widely. When that happens, stories do not have to be softened or reshaped to fit someone else’s comfort level to be seen as valuable. They get to stay specific, layered, and honest. And that is how we grow what gets treated as universal.
Moss makes a direct argument through craft as much as through commentary: Afro-Indigenous children deserve stories where they are centered, affirmed, and allowed to be kids. My Afro-Indigenous Superpower keeps Meeka’s emotional world in the foreground, then equips adults with the tools to do their share of the work through guides that introduce necessary history and language in age-appropriate ways.
As Black History Month progresses, My Afro-Indigenous Superpower serves as a reminder that Afro-Indigenous families and histories are not new. What’s new is seeing that truth being celebrated and acknowledged, with joy, specificity, and care. This book belongs in February spotlights and on shelves year-round, because kids should not have to wait for a theme month to find themselves in the story.
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