Tell Me a Story

The power of a story was engrained in me at a very early age. Story telling is as much a part of my life as my deep southern roots, where family folklore is a cornerstone of our culture, history and legacies. Storytelling is somewhat of a birthright for a southerner, part of one’s social and cultural tapestry, it’s the air we breathe. My childhood is filled with images of women gathered in my grandmother’s quilting room, visions of well-worn hands piecing together swatches of fabric, piece by piece, sharing tales of triumph and victories, love and loss, weaving shared experience, offerings of wisdom.  I can still hear the rhythm and hum of the chatter and banter the barbershop synched with sounds of straight razor blades gliding across the rugged plains of whiskered of my grandfather’s cheeks, sometime ending in the most amazing a Capella call and response hymnal that recapitulated their personal stories and journeys.  Like that quilt that’s sown and passed down, stories and oral history are central tenets of African American family life. These stories turned deserts into oasis of hope, quieted the thunder of life's storm, brought beauty from ruin and provided salve to wounded souls.  

I was blessed with the presence of both maternal and paternal grandparents well into my adult life. As a young schoolgirl, I never ever tired of listening to our storied legacy, filled with a mixture of humor, seriousness and often unimaginable grief, but always seasoned with a generous dose of grace and hope, reflecting the resilience and perseverance of my ancestors. When the world in which I existed did everything it could to denounce my personhood and erase my humanity, I leaned on these stories of old slave narratives, of ingenuity in spite of enforced limitation, of deep family bonds, amazing stories of enduring love, and lifelong friendships. These tales sowed and rooted in me dignity, a sense of honor and pride.

My Granny Bessie was the keeper and arbiter of our paternal lineage dating back five generations. I don’t exactly recall when I started requesting and audience but I can remember prodding her, tell me the story, as I brushed her long wavy hair and rubbed her knees, long been robbed of their mobility by “rheumatism” had long robbed them of mobility and flexibility.  It was our time. I was a teenager before I thought to record her. Sparing none of the details of the indignity and atrocities of enslavement of her of the past generations, her stories were emotional yet incredibly inspirational. They kindled and stirred something deep in my being each time I heard them, like a favorite book you read again and again, each time there is always something new to gleam or learn. I didn’t just listen to these stories, I heard and felt them and every sense of my being was stimulated; like the sweet smell of honeysuckle in the air, the tapping sounds of rain on a tin roof, the cool air after a good soaking of a sun shower on a scorching hot summer day, the orchestral humming of a chorus of cicadas or the brilliance of a single firefly against the backdrop of a moonless sky. They were and are a living breathing part of my being.

It is no wonder that” tell me a story” plea became part of my own daughter bedtime ritual. After we finished her “just one more book" plea, she would ever so quietly request to hear her adoption story that I had woven into an age-appropriate bedtime story about a beautiful, honey colored baby girl and bow her birth mother, alone and very afraid, loved her soooooo much that she very courageously made a wise plan to place her in a loving home that could provide for her. Initially, my daughter listened intently but as the years passed on, early she took the helm and began to tell the story back to me.  As she matured and entered middle school, she hungered for more. So, details were added to the story, as much as her tender heart could absorb.

My daughter Sara Anne…named for my 2x paternal great grandmother, Sarah a former enslaved person and my maternal great grandmother Annie who proudly wore the badge of courage of being the first woman in the county where she lived to file for a divorce in order to leave an abusive marriage.

Sara is grown and out in the world on her own but every now and the we find ourselves huddled up and cuddling as we revisit the story. We are blessed to still have with us a 92-year-old paternal Uncle and a 100-year-old maternal Aunt to remind of from whence we come and who continue “to pass the word".  I hope and pray that she will always hold these stories dear to her heart and they one day will in turn become part of her family legacy. But mostly, I hope that the story of fortitude, resilience and spirit of the two women who are her namesakes will resonate always and carry her through.