Strong Women Run Young

Generations and centuries ago, I believe one of my foremothers prayed for the strength of her female lineage. I believed she looked up at the midnight sky and hoped for a time different than the time of limitations. I believe my Grandmother, born in 1896, also looked up at the midnight sky and prayed for a different future for her female lineage. I believe my mother, born in 1924, held back by the limitations of racism and sexism, looked up at the midnight sky and prayed for a different future for her female lineage. I, born in 1964, look up at the midnight sky and pray for a future of possibility and unlimited fulfillment for my two daughters, born in 2001 and 2003.

The great cloud of witness of these strong women are envisioned sitting on a high spiritual mountain looking down on the two girls, the 8th generation from our known beginning. They must be smiling at the six-year-old who is ever considerate, responsible, observant, problem-solving, creative, dancing, and writing. She is the one who prances around like the little princess she is.

This butterfly princess was clearning the dining room table, preparing for the evening ritual. She sang a song that was made up as she cleared. I don't think she realizes how prophetic the words of her simple, sing-song ditty. This little song repeated and her younger sister, the four-year-old warrior princess, chimed in, repeating verses with her sister. I smiled silently at this song and wondered if she really knew that she was singing for the many women in her lineage.

"I will survive, nothing can stop me. Whatever I want to do. No one can stop me. I can survive. If I want to buy a house, I will buy it myself. If I want to buy a car, I will buy it myself. Nothing can stop me. I will do what I want to do. I will be what I want to be, no one can stop me. I will survive. I won't get scared. Stop and see me. Buying my stuff that I need. No one can tell me stop that, no can tell me not to do that. I can survive. Up downs or down downs, I will survive. Nothing can stop me. If flying is what I want to do. I will survive by myself."

I listened to the song she sang and her little voice ringing in my mind. Our first mother, born in Hispaniola, in Santo Domingo, in a time long ago, had to survive. She was kidnapped by a Frenchman who was captivated by her exotic beauty. She and her five-year-old daughter traveled with this man to New Orleans under the promise to be assimilated into the Creole society, the free people of color. Her price for this was her silence and her allegance to him as his wife, if she refused, he would immediately sell her into slavery, her exotic, quadroon beauty would've fetched a high price. She survived for her self and her daughter.

I think she sang a song in her native Spanish to herself and her daughter, little Ester, and promsied that they would survive. They did survive. Ester grew up in the social graces of the unique New Orleans society of free people of color. She was a little girl and quickly learned French and used her native Spanish to speak to the servants on their plantations and in their cane fields. She survived, she married a French man and had a daughter. This daughter would move to St. Louis, marry a free black man and set the stage for multiple generations after her.

My daughter's song rings in my ears as I think of this first foremother, on that beautiful Caribbean island, just going to the market to get fabric for little Ester's birthday dress. I think of her innocent acceptance of the newly arrived ships and cargo that was often traded with the French, Spanish, and free people of color that populated this once united island. She must have been scared when he lured her onto the ship with the promise of beautiful silk from the Orient. Perhaps little Ester's eyes grew wide at the possibility of something new, even as my little girls' eyes grow wide at the promise of a new dress, toy or pretty thing.

I wrote out the generations from this first mother and found a common thread among the women, they are strong, they are overcomers, they are survivors. They navigated a closed society in the times before women had the right to vote and people of color were enslaved. They managed to maintain their culture and upbringing through life's challenges. In the heart of these women was a spirit and a strength that is indominable. It has reached to the 8th generation, young women determined and tenacious, ready to change the world.

Yes little daughter, you will survive, you are strong, you are bold, you are promise.

Sad for Hispaniola

Something makes me sad this morning.

I'm researching our family origins. We are one of the few multi-generational black families in America that can actually pinpoint a place outside the United States as our origin. Many generations and more than a century ago, our foremother was taken from the island of Hispaniola (now Haiti/Dominican Republic) and brought to New Orleans, LA. The descendants of this woman are of the colorful and vibrant Creole culture. Our ancestors included wealthy Creole women and French men who lived, worked, and prospered on the French Quarter during the famed New Orleans ante-bellum heyday. The three-tier, decidedly French society, included my family, the Guyols, gens de coeuler libre, or "free people of color." Their world was one of refinement, social graces, balls, cotillions, servants, and education. Their wealth came from sugar plantations back on the islands, real estate, and business holdings in the states. As was the custom in creole society, the women were property owners and our female ancestors had homes on the French Quarter. The men were educated, the women were educated and taught to be ladies, the custom of the pre-Civil War 1800s. They were society. They spoke French.

The rich culture of my family,now 6 and 7 generations from our foremother, gives me great joy. We are a deeply spiritual and connected family. This one foremother spawned generations that number in the hundreds. These beautiful people range in hue from creamy vanilla to deep cocoa. The numbers include those with businesses, multiple degrees, and positions of power and influence. While not all members are Catholic, the Catholic church is a great influence in the lives of the Guyol offspring. There are priests, deacons, and Eucharist ministers among our number. Deeply spiritual and committed people share my heritage.

Yet this is not what makes me sad today.

I visited a site about Haiti. We can trace our heritage to Hispaniola and are sorting through the details to determine if our ancestor came from the Dominican Republic side or the Haitian side. We have learned that she was wealthy and the family owned sugar plantations. Haiti in the mid-1700s was French dominated and formerly Saint Domingue. It split from The Dominican Republic during the time of Napoleon and a slave revolt that won independence in 1804. Haiti was the center of commerce and culture at the time with the Dominican side being less developed, mostly supplying labor for the sugar plantations. Then something shifted.

The Haitian side is primarily French-speaking ruling or wealthy class along with the poorer majority Creole-speaking class. There is no middle class and no chance to move from ultra poor to rich. There is entrenched civil unrest and corruption right alongside the beautiful sky, lush mountains, and joyous people. The small eastern side of the island that is the Republic of Haiti is beyond poor, it is poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere. There aren't any tourist destinations or lush sandy beaches to draw snow-birds like the neighboring Dominican Republic.

The Dominican side is primarily Spanish speaking. There is rich tourism, lush beaches, airports, and many reasons to visit. The black people identify as Spanish and many deny their shared African heritage with their Haitian neighbors. In reality, they descended from one people, a captured people from the shores of West Africa and brought to the West Indies during the Spanish and French slave trades. The ghosts of the 1700s rings out from the mountains of both places, yet when the French overtook the Spanish in gaining control of the island,the Spanish side retreated into itself and refused any connection with the French side. The result has been devastating on Haiti since 1804.

It makes me sad, it makes me wonder what happened. Was it the voodou religion? The deep adherence to centuries-old practices that keep people ill and dying? Is it the HIV/AIDS epidemic that has ravaged the island? Is it the elimination of the middle class and the deep divides that make Creole, the language of the people, seen as an inferior language? Is it the wealthy, lighter skinned, French-speaking, educated Haitians that oppress their own brothers? What is it? Why is this beautiful island ravaged with soil erosion and filth in the water, trees cut down for warmth, huts next to mansions?

I am saddened as I research this island more and more. What can I do? How can I make these beautiful people remember their proud heritage and will to live that made them the first black republic? How can I get them to stop destroying their infrastructure and begin to grow their trees that will help clean their water? How can I influence the ruling class to destroy the walls of civil discord and help their brother? Is the history too entrenched to change? It has to change in order to survive.

It makes me sad but hopeful.

Today I Sat and Listened...And Learned

Sometimes you just have to sit and listen.

Today I visited my elderly aunt. She is eighty-two years old, having just seen this birthday, her body is failing but her mind is sharp. I sat in her company for two and one-half hours to talk, listen, and learn. Mostly, I listened.

Our oral history is rich with nuggets, a wealth of knowledge locked up in the minds of our nation's elders. I realized this evening, though I've had numerous conversations with this aunt, the historian, there was still much to learn. The time I had to hold her hand, touch her arm, feel her touch my hand was precious, I felt as if I was reaching across time as we shared a laugh and a knowing smile. There truly is nothing new under the sun.

This is the year of a few important 40th year anniversaries including Dr. Martin Luther King Jr,'s assassination, my mother's death, and my life as a mother-less child. As I was sitting in the company of my aunt, watching her eyes look in a lens of a time long ago, I understood the wealth of a nation. My visit with my aunt was not in her senior citizen apartment complex but in a long-term care facility, her temporary home due to a recent illness. There were many elders there, men and women, who came of age in the 1940s and hold countless treasures, walking history books waiting to be read.

After my visit with my dear aunt, my husband and I gathered our daughters from his aunt's house and drove the 20 minutes home. At the dinner table we mentioned what we were thankful for and family was the resounding answer.

God has blessed us to be back in the city of our birth, St. Louis, a city where so much history is contained in the brick buildings of memory. My grandfather was born here, my grandmother was born here, most of my cousins were born here, all of my mother's siblings and all of my mother's children. There is something spiritual and soulful about being in the presence of legacy and in the memory of family. We spoke of this blessing at our dinner table to the sponge-like minds of our youngest children, into their ears, penetrating their spirits, emblazoned in their soul. One day I will be an elder and a granddaughter will sit and talk with me and learn about a different life, I pray that I will have the stories to tell, I pray she will cherish them like I cherish the stories of my elders.

Today, I sat and listened and learned and walked away complete.

May the Peace of the Lord Be With You

I have a dear uncle who greets me with "May the Peace of the Lord be With You my Darling." Remembering my Catholic roots, I would respond, "And also with you Uncle." We would then launch into a lively conversation that lasts for hours. I thought of his greeting this morning and on the surface, one could take it lightly as "just one of those Catholic things" especially since I am a disciple, a born-again Christian, not a skirt-donning, no make-up wearing, no-fun having Christian, just a simple woman who found real relationship in Christ and in the company of other believers. So, this greeting could be dismissed in other religious circles, but as divine providence has it, it really can't be dismissed if you listen to the hope and promise and prayer in that greeting.

May the Peace of the Lord, what better peace than that in these times of war and corruption and recession and hatred? What better prayer to give to our fellow man than the peace of God and that He would be with us. I need Him every day as a wife, mother, niece, cousin, aunt, friend, writer, and scholar. The many events of my day could sometimes cause for unrest and confusion especially when my six-year-old daughter lets out one of her ear shattering screams in the wake of my thirteen-year-old son's antics. There are moments in my life of dirty dishes, mountains of laundry, a much-used one-bathroom, that I crave His peace and His presence.

This morning I thought of my Uncle's greeting as I was finishing up my reading in Ephesians. This is what is says, "Peace be with you, dear brothers and sisters, and my God the Father and the Lord Jesus Christ give you love with faithfulness. May God's grace be eternally upon all who love our Lord Jesus Christ." Ephesians 6:23-24, NLT. Paul's final greeting to the church in Ephesus is enough to smile about. Being inquisitive, I turned back to the beginning of the book to see the salutation of his letter and sure enough, "May God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ give you grace and peace," Ephesians 1:2, NLT. So, this greeting of my Uncle is his faith and his prayer for me in that moment. I readily accept it. When he utters those words, it warms my heart and brings a smile to my face, in that moment, someone prayed for me. My response back to him, is my prayer for him. I really do want God's grace and peace to be with him as he battles COPD while laughing and joking with his younger generations.

We are at the dawn of 2008, the year has already started with tragedy and triumph, with history and hope, it is my prayer that the peace of God will be with us all as we take this journey through another year. We may experience the recession the news keeps hinting at, you may be in the middle of the housing crisis with a mortgage more than money or a home that won't sell, you may be unemployed or underemployed, you may be sick, or lonely, or in pain, but in 2008, my prayer for you is my Uncle's prayer for you and the Apostle Paul's prayers in all his letters, "May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with your spirit, May God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ give you grace and peace. May the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all." Amen.

Dreaming of My Mother

Thoughts of my mother have filled my soul. It has been the thing that made me different, my entire youth I was the one whose mother died as a little. There was the hidden tragedy in the voice of the ones who said it, in hushed tones, and sullen eyes. My curious nature propelled me to ask endless questions of my dad who told me everything he remembered and tried to paint vivid pictures of this woman, my mother. There remained a deep hole in the center of my essence because I didn't have her.

I was only a few months into being a four year old when my mother took her last breath. My mind tries desperately to search for images or words but comes up empty, save for the stories of my elders. Would I ever reach into the past and know this complex, beautiful, and talented woman whose face I see when I look in the mirror?

My eyes are looking out at the quaint neighborhood, my home, and I glance at a picture of her when she was sixteen. Her smile held such innocence, such hope, such promise. Did she know her dreams would be dashed by the harshness of segregation and the cruelty of patriarchy? Her creativity, her desire was crushed on a spring day and in some ways, her light dimmed.

I am now forty-three and have come to know this woman,my mother. My own journey has given me two families, my older children and my precious daughters, one who is now four. This year I will be forty-four, the same age she was when she drew her last breath, perhaps that is what is propelling me to dance in her sunrise. Her spirit lives on in my writer daughter, who at six, is both passionate and pouty, and my warrior daughter, who at four, is determined and daring. My mother was forty years my senior, almost exactly, us sharing the same birth month. She looked so joyful in the photos of her with her children, perhaps her heart was uttering the hope that one of her three daughters would catapult her dream to a new tomorrow. Perhaps we have, perhaps we are.

My life has brought me back to the city of my birth, of her birth, to the welcome of my elders. I listen to them and see the generations of our legacy. My eyes seek to capture every nuiance, every gesture, to store it in my memory back, to fill in the pieces. I am older and wise now, I appreciate the treasures now.

Life

I am sitting here this morning, latte in hand as usual, thinking about life. The Christmas break afforded me the moments to sit back and ponder the space between the beginning and ending. It was also a time for me to think about how sudden it can all change.

Our family lost a dear cousin a few days after Christmas. We are all still in shock because she looked so beautiful at a recent party. The airwaves were working overtime as the news traveled across the United States and reached into France. I sat in my car as my Uncle told me the sudden, sad news. This beautiful woman would not be there at the reunion, she wouldn't look at me and smile, she wouldn't touch me with the love of someone who loved me before I knew myself.

It is the new year and her funeral will be soon now that all her children have made it home. The hole in the heart is collective, we are still shaking our head, how did this happen? She was into her 70s so one could say it was her age, but her cousins, my aunts and uncle, didn't look as good as she did at the same party. It really is not up to us who draws their last breath when.

I sit and think about my remaining older relatives and how precious time is. It is easy to take it for granted that they will always be there, but always is not forever. My uncle is in the hospital, I made a beeline to his room to sit at his side. I drive into the city every Sunday to visit my elderly aunt, she my mother's sister who helped fill the void in my heart when my mother died. One day, these elders will be gone and the thought leaves me with a longing in my heart.

When I see my elders, I will embrace them. They are my ancestry, my history, my anchor. I want to capture their words of wisdom and the sharpness of their memory. Time really is too short.