This is one of my favorite photos. That’s me looking all “prim and proper” as my mom would say. It was taken on Easter Sunday at a park in downtown Atlanta. I think I was about 7 or 8 years old. I loved to dress up for Easter, and get my hair done in lots of babydoll curls. It was always a happy day for me. I hope you have happy Easter memories too.
Happy Easter!
As many of you know, I spent last weekend in Savannah, GA with my genea-pals Luckie, Felicia, and Mavis, and my brother Bernard. (Click here to see photos from our trip.) To say that it was a wonderful trip would truly be an understatement; it was perfect. From the company, to the weather, to the accommodations, it was a flawless weekend. My genea-sisters Felicia (My Nola Heritage), Luckie (Our Georgia Roots), and Mavis (Georgia Black Crackers) have done an excellent job, through words and/or pictures, of recounting our trip-the fun we had, and the friendship we shared. We had a great time, and I really, really enjoyed myself. Yet, I could not write about the trip. I posted photos on Tombstone Tuesday and on Wordless Wednesday, but otherwise have not blogged about my Savannah experience. It was a trip with memories that I will treasure for a lifetime, but, I just could not find words to write about the experience. Until this morning, I wasn’t sure why. Now I realize I needed time to digest – not so much what my eyes had seen, but rather what my soul had felt. It was an emotional experience like no other.
Often, mere words cannot adequately convey emotions. Often times, song lyrics can. This morning as I reflected on the trip, what came to mind was the old gospel hymn How I Got Over. In that moment, as the lyrics of the chorus flowed through my mind, I was finally able to associate my feelings and emotions with words. The chorus to the song goes:
How I got over
How I got over
You know my soul looks back and wonder
How I got over
Our ancestors have always found comfort in song. It’s no wonder this old spiritual would bring me comfort now when I was so desperate to identify what has been nagging at me these past few days. Finally, I have words for these emotions; the deep feeling of sadness. Those lines of the song perfectly reflect and sum-up my Savannah experience. My soul does surely look back and wonder…How OUR ANCESTORS Got Over.
You know my soul looks back and wonder….
How….such a beautiful room could have once been the living quarters for slave ancestors who waited the call to do their master’s bidding. Yet, my sleep there was peaceful..unusually so. No doubt some small corner of the room was a haven from the harsh realities outside. I was rocked to sleep by the spirit of those ancestors. I have no doubt about that.
How…. The Hanging Tree with all its natural beauty and splendor of 270 years was used for such and ugly purpose. My soul aches for all the ancestors whose fate was a noose at the end of a rope tied to a branch on that tree.
You know my soul looks back and wonder….
How…. our ancestors survived the lashes of a whip that cut through the bark of The Whipping Tree. My soul feels the pain that each mark on that tree represents; the screams of agony, the bloodshed, the despair. My eyes filled with tears; my heart with rage.
How….today’s beautiful and tranquil waters of the Savannah River once held vessels that transported our ancestors to the market place on River Street; to an uncertain fate, maybe even death.
You know my soul looks back and wonder….
How….men, women, children, and babies could be held in confinement awaiting the unknown fate and indignity of purchase; sold by The River, down The River on River Street. How did they endure the pain, thirst, hunger, and suffering? My soul feels empty when I think about the shear disrespect for human life.
How….the Slave Barracoons and cobblestone paths of River Street are all but forgotten by a city whose history is heavy with the spirit of our slave ancestors. I look back and I wonder.
Amongst all that is the beauty of Savannah, there lives an undeniable and unforgettable history of pain and suffering. That history is heavy with the spirit of our ancestors. That ancestor spirit is what I felt most in my soul and will never forget. As I reflect on my visit, the memory is bItter sweet and…. My soul looks back and wonder….
How THEYgot over
How THEY got over
You know my soul looks back and wonder
How OUR ANCESTORS got over
[How I Got Over is a Gospel hymn composed and published in 1951 by Rev. W. Herbert Brewster. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/How_I_Got_Over ]
Welcome to the new home of I Never Knew My Father. I hope you like the new look. Things were quiet for a few weeks during our “facelift”, but now we’re back with more reflections, research challenges, and ancestor stories. A couple of posts you may have missed during the transition are a birthday shout-out to my brother Bernard on February 8th and the February 10th Wordless Wednesday tribute to Harriet Tubman. If you’re a new follower to I Never Knew My Father, you also may have missed my post A Friend of Friends: Lessons From The Underground Railroad. This post is very dear to my heart, and is a message that cannot be repeated too often. I welcome your comments.
Again, thanks for following I Never Knew My Father. I appreciate your support.
Well now, I’ve only been blogging since September 2009, and already I feel it’s time for a change. I’m still a newbie, but something tells me it’s time to move forward, and take on a few new challenges. I Never Knew My Father is undergoing a major overall; there will be a new look and a new location. It’s still a work in progress, but things are moving along. I truly appreciate each and every one of my followers; your comments, support, and encouragement have been invaluable. I hope you’ll hang in there with me while the blog goes through a little facelift. I think you’ll like the new look.
Here, at the beginning of Black History Month, it seems an appropriate time to honor those buried in Rock Springs Cemetery. No, they are not the “typical” persons we think of during Black History Month. But, that does not diminish their importance as people- as African Americans who shared our history, our culture, our struggle. Each was someone’s child, and probably a mother or father, sister or brother. Some were most likely friends and neighbors. East Point and Hapeville were and still are neighboring communities here in the Atlanta metro area. No doubt some were probably related-Davis…Jackson…Wilson. Definitely, others were-Taliaferro…Toliver…Poole. All were God’s children who lived, loved, laughed, cried, and died. Gone, but remembered and loved by somebody, somewhere:
*DAVIS (née Ross), Mary Alice (d. 1926) East Point, GA
*DAVIS, James A. (D. 1926) East Point, GA
*DORSEY, Dennis (d. 1922) Atlanta, GA
*FULLER (née Jackson), Lizzie (d. 1925) East Point, GA
*JACKSON, Marry C. (d. 1923) East Point, GA
*JACKSON (née Johnson), Cornelia (d. 1925) Atlanta, GA
*JACKSON, Mary (d. 1927) East Point, GA
*POOLE, Alex (d. 1923) East Point, GA
*ROSS (née Jackson), Dollie J. (d. 1927) East Point, GA
*SEAGRAVES, Rueban J. (d. 1922) East Point, GA
*TALIAFERRO, J W (d. 1922) East Point, GA
*TOLIVER, Bob (d. 1920) East Point, GA
*WILSON, Ison (d. 1921) Hapeville, GA
*WILSON, Robert (d. 1923) Hapeville, GA
*WILSON, William (d. 1926) Hapeville, GA
Maybe someone will happen upon this post and reclaim their long lost ancestor. THIS IS MY PRAYER.
Recently, while searching through the Vanishing Georgia Collection at The Digital Library of Georgia I came across this photo of Walker Street Elementary School. Unfortunately, the photo depicts a fire that destroyed the building in January 1983. Walker Street became Atlanta’s third public (white) elementary school in February 1872. The building as it stood when I attended was built in 1911. It was converted to an elementary school for Blacks in the 1930′s.
Looking at this photo sadden me, but also brought back memories of my old neighborhood. Today, the neighborhood is known as Castleberry Hill; it’s on the west-side of Atlanta, just minutes from downtown. I don’t remember it being called Castleberry Hill when I was a child; I didn’t know it had a name – it was just home. Now the area is being rebuilt with lofts, condos and trendy shops so I guess they had to give it a name or call it something. The famous Pascal’s Restaurant even relocated to Castleberry Hill from its historic location on ML King Drive (formerly Hunter Street). Boy, have things changed!
I attended Walker Street from kindergarten through the fifth grade. Those were by far the best years of my childhood. My friends and I walked back and forth to school every day; no fears, no threat of harm. Most days on the walk home, we stopped at the little corner store for some two for a penny candy or cookies – Mary Jane was my favorite…Sugar Daddy…Bazooka Gum…coconut bars, and those little cookies shaped like a flower with the whole in the middle. I don’t think they had a name – “just give me a nickel worth of those”. We played hopscotch on the sidewalk, jacks and marbles, kick ball and giant step (May I, Yes You May) in the street, and fell asleep on the porch on hot summer nights.
We had a milkman who delivered milk, eggs and butter; a vegetable man yelling- “veg- a-bles, git ya veg-a-bles”, and in the summertime we all waited anxiously, with a nickel or dime, for the ice cream man. There was also the ice man, the junk man, the insurance man, the Watkins man, and the Fuller Brush man. Now that I think about it, seems there was a “man” for just about anything you needed. You could go to the grocery store without any money – “my mama said, put it on her bill.” We were carefree and happy. We were not sick often, but when we were the doctor came to our house. Were we poor? I didn’t think so…at least not through my child’s eyes. I never wanted for any thing. There was always plenty of food, a big warm house, nice clean clothes to wear, and above all, lots of love. This is not to say that all was peaches and cream. We took the trolley to town, but had to sit in the back, and ten minutes away doors were labeled “Colored” and “White”…but, those memories are for another time, another post. Today, I have fond memories of Walker Street Elementary School, and the old neighborhood – Castleberry Hill.
However, there is one ugly memory that I must share, or my recollections of Walker Street Elementary School would be incomplete. As happy as my memories are, I am forever scared by one vivid not so nice memory that haunts me to this very day. I remember it so well….It was the last day of school, a beautiful, sunny day. My friends and I were standing out front in the schoolyard gathering for the walk home, and ready to begin our summer vacation; there was laughter, joking, playing around. All of a sudden out of nowhere this boy runs up to me and plants an awkward kiss smack dab on my cheek. I WAS HORRIFIED!! I won’t say his name, but he will always be remembered by me as the boy who ruined my last day of school – fifth grade.
That summer we moved and I changed schools. It was sad leaving my friends and all the good times we shared. But, you know, it’s a good thing we did move because I was going be another year older, and ready to kick that boy’s butt if he tried something like that with me again!!
[Image Source: The Digital Library of Georgia, Vanishing Georgia Collection . http://dlg.galileo.usg.edu/]
[School History-Source: Early School Days In Castleberry Hill. The Chronicle, Winter 2007. Assessed 23 January 2010. http://www.castleberryhill.org/chronicle/winter07.pdf]
One night during the holidays I watched one of my favorite movies, Roots: The Gift. The movie stars LeVar Burton and Louis Gossett, Jr., in their roles as Kunta Kinte and Fiddler from the television series Roots. In this movie, Kunta and Fiddler accompany their owner to another plantation at Christmas time for a party, and become involved in a plan to help some runaway slaves escape via the Underground Railroad to freedom. A simple, yet powerful story. There are many messages and lessons to be learned from Roots: The Gift.
In one of my favorite scenes, Fiddler and Kunta are helping the group of runaway slaves get to the river where they are to meet a boat that will take them further on their journey to freedom. Along the way they make a stop to pick up other “passengers” on the Underground Railroad. When they come to a farmhouse, Kunta approaches and knocks. The man asks…”who goes”? Kunta responds “Friend of Friends”…in acknowledgment, the man replies “Friend of Friends”. A group of “passengers” exit the house. Kunta, Fiddler, and the group continue their journey.
This year, I was particularly moved by the Underground Railroad scene, and even more so by the phrase uttered by Kunta- Friend of Friends. The phrase, and variations of it, was used along the Underground Railroad as a password or signal to those assisting runaway slaves on their journey North…to freedom. The traditional response to the “who goes there” password is said to have been “A Friend of a Friend”.
A Friend of Friends. Say it… A Friend of Friends, again…A Friend of Friends. It evokes such a comforting, welcoming feeling. A feeling of trust, of sharing, of caring, of kindness, and of friendship, however brief. At the same time, it is transient…adjusting and changing with the circumstances. I’m A Friend of Friends….you don’t know me, but I require assistance…I need your help, and guidance…some information to aid me on my journey…then I’ll be moving on…to the next stop along the way.
The phrase, and the underlying concept, seems particularly appropriate and relevant for those of us in the genealogy community; aren’t we all on some level really just A Friend of Friends? Strangers helping strangers. Friends of friends with a common bond that ties us all together….the desire to know our ancestors, and to tell their stories. A common goal, with different methods, different paths that cross and intersect along the journey. As we travel this road to uncovering our ancestors and their stories we should all embrace the concept…we should be A Friend of Friends. Don’t be afraid or reluctant to share, to care, to guide, or to assist your fellow researcher along their journey.
As an African American researcher my task is two-fold; I research my family, but inevitably I must also research the family of my ancestor’s slave holders if I want to know more about my roots. Often we must seek information (assistance) from those that we do not know to aid us on our journey. It is an unavoidable truth – the descendants of our ancestor’s slave holding families may hold the key to our enslaved ancestor’s past. Slavery is an ugly truth of our shared history. I am not angry with you because your ancestor held my ancestor as a slave; don’t be angry with me because I seek those records that may shed more light on the lives of my people, and help me to tell their story more completely. Some who were members of slave holding families assisted passengers along the Underground Railroad. I challenge you to be A Friend of Friends.
We, as researchers of our African American ancestry, must also remember to share, to care, to guide, and to assist our fellow researchers; reach out, take time….no, make time. Can you request and expect the assistance of others, yet not expect the same of yourself? I urge you to stop being selfish with your research. Don’t miss out on a connection or a long lost cousin because of fear or uncertainty. Post It, Blog It, Share It, and Publish It. Many who were passengers along the Underground Railroad returned to assist others on their journey to freedom. I challenge you to be A Friend of Friends.
True genealogists know all of this, and understand the necessity of it. Indeed, the concept is nothing new in the genealogy community. Random, and not so random, acts of kindness occur every day. So, consider this a wake-up call, my challenge to you. When a fellow researcher comes calling…for info…for guidance…for knowledge…for support – be there – to share, to care, to guide, and to assist.
This is my first Christmas without my mother. I miss my mom more than word can ever express, but I have promised myself that I will not be sad and weepy, and that I will enjoy Christmas as I know she would want me to. My brother Bernard and I will be spending the day at my cousin’s house. All of the Middlebrooks family here in Atlanta will be there, and I know my mama’s spirit will be there with us.
My mother did not like to have her picture taken. It was extremely difficult to get her in front of a camera so I have very few photos of her. This is one I have of her from a Christmas long, long ago. It did not have a date on it, but look at that tree… my “go go” boots there on the floor…and where in the world did she get those eyeglasses!! There are tears in my eyes, but a big smile on my face and a warm feeling of love in my heart. Merry Christmas mama. I miss you.
Researching my family history is a very emotional experience for me, as I’m sure it is for many researchers. Each newly discovered piece of information fills in another piece of the puzzle, but also presents you with more questions and creates even more empty spaces in that puzzle that is your family tree. Our family stories need to be told, and we were chosen by our ancestors to do just that…tell their stories. It is imperative that we record and preserve our family history. No one said it would be easy, but it is necessary. There are highs and lows, jackpot days and empty days, and many brick walls to tackle. It’s a roller coaster ride of emotions, and I love it all. Sometimes, however, I can’t help but wonder about the things I’ll never find, and….
For all the brick walls I’ll never break through
For all the documents I’ll never find
For all the burned courthouses where ashes held the answers I seek
For all the times no one took the time to write it down
For all those known only by their sex, age and race
For all those that died before anyone knew they were ever alive
For all those who survived with no clues left to trace
For all the photos with no name, date, or place
For all the lost memories, and those too ugly to share
For all the unidentifiable and unmarked graves
For all the cemeteries too unimportant to save
For all those ancestors I’ll never know
For all those I find, but can’t prove they are mine….
[Image Source: Blue Monday. Artist: Annie Lee]
This is a photo of my MIDDLEBROOKS family taken one Christmas in the mid to late 1960′s. Whenever I look at this picture it makes me smile and warms my heart. It makes me long for a FAMILY REUNION. When I was a little girl, we would go down to my mother’s hometown of Woodbury, GA in Meriwether County for Homecoming Sunday. Other than the vague memories of these events, I don’t recall attending a family reunion. One of my greatest desires is to have a TALIAFERRO family reunion. I’m talking about an “official” family reunion- meet and greet, cookout at the park, tee shirts, family worship-a weekend of family fun and fellowship. My brother and cousins tell me there has never been a TALIAFERRO Family Reunion. The idea has been bounced around, but no one has actually taken the initiative and put one together. Maybe that someone will be me.
Thanks to Karen@
Genealogy Frame of
Mind (18 March 2011)
