The Past Is Never Far

A personal essay.

Stories passed from generation to generation sometimes become folklore. The folklore evolves into a mystical tale that is far from the truth. The little tub filled with warm salvia was going to unravel the mysticism. It was going to release the secrets from Pandora’s box and I was ready for it.

Or was I?

Months of research driven by a need to understand my ancestors led to a turning point. My great-great-grandmother was enslaved. Now, I wasn’t shocked that my ancestors were enslaved — I expected that. The thing that made my jaw drop was it was so close in my lineage.

The US census data showed my great-great-grandmother was employed in the early 1900s as a “servant” which meant she probably worked at the plantations she was raised on before the Emancipation Proclamation. The very plantation is still around to this day as a place for tourists to visit and see the horrendous history of slavery.

It sunk in quickly that my great-great-grandmother was raised on the very property that enslaved her family. My grandmother moved to another state in the 1960s which was the first time my paternal family line had been out of Arkansas.

After researching, the next logical step in the ancestry journey was a DNA test. I was eager for the results and they did not disappoint. It revealed that my ancestors were from West Africa. Primarily they were located in Ghana, Sierra Leon, and Liberia. Again, not surprising since many West Africans were kidnapped from their homes and enslaved.

Everything was coming full circle and it was overwhelming. The floor fell out from under my feet and I descended into a pit of knowledge.

Being born to a white mother and Black father is like winning a prize and being told you only get to keep half. Half of each culture, half of each hair texture, or half of your father’s skin color…

Half means you don’t fit in either group — you’re in limbo. Both sides of the familial coin hated me. I was too dark, I was too light, my hair was too curly, my nose too flat…racism from the bigoted maternal line and disgust from the paternal line because my father procreated with a white woman.

Hello there! It’s me. The child that never asked to be born into a war. The child that wanted to know what the word “family” really meant, but never did.

Years of racism created the idea that love is only love if your skin matches. I was left with a gaping hole of uncertainty that penetrated my identity.

Until now.

As I continue to learn about my Black ancestry, I fill in the gaps. My great-great-grandmother was NOT a slave, that was not her identity. She lived in a world that gave her no choices, she WAS enslaved.

I bet my great-great-grandmother was a beautiful and powerful woman. She endured the worst of humanity and still left a legacy.

Promptly by Ravyne Hawke in Promptly Written “Wednesday’s Either/Or Either Free or Enslaved.