Author: Regina Lynette

10 Min Read, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Family, The Mothers

Looking for Odetta and Peoria, I’ve found almost nothing.

Regina Lynette

I am Regina Lynette, daughter of Donna Maria, daughter of Dorothy Lee, daughter of Odetta, daughter of Peoria. And I have been searching for myself in my mothers’ gardens. But what do I do when all I know is a name, some basic statistics, and a cause of death? I wish I knew if one of them had these ankles – they’re hereditary and I’ll never forgive the ancestor who passed them on to me. They skipped over my parents and none of my siblings got them so I can’t track them down.

Odetta (Cox) Thomas, my great-grandmother, is practically just a name and possibly a photograph along with a death certificate and a few census records to me. She was my great-grandfather’s first wife and together they had three daughters, including my grandmother. She stayed barefoot and pregnant having all three daughters in the span of about 3 years but lost the last of those daughters at just 6 months old. She married young, probably about 14 years old and died young at 31 years old. She died from paralysis and apoplexy (presumably a stroke) due to interstitial nephritis according to her death certificate (it only took me years to decipher the handwriting on the certificate). With this information, I can’t guarantee that she had these ankles.

The last census taken during her life, one year before she died, shows that she was divorced from my great-grandfather, but her death certificate shows she was married when she died, and no name was listed for her husband. She is listed with my great-grandfather’s name on her death certificate, and he is noted as a widower before his second marriage. What’s for certain is that she was not living with him nor her children – at the time, she was a roomer in a house with her parents. Somewhere between 1920 and 1930, my great-grandparents had some kind of separation – an undocumented/unfiled divorce – and I’m left with far too many ideas of why she wasn’t living with her children. I cannot confirm where my great- grandfather and his daughters were living that year.

Without one single family story about Odetta, it’s difficult for me to even make assumptions about the way life treated her. Even though she married at such a young age, it wasn’t atypical for the time. All signs point to her death being sudden and unexpected – her age and her immediate cause of death support that assumption. She has been laid to rest in Mt Carmel cemetery in Memphis. We visited this cemetery with little hope of finding her or my other relatives buried there. The cemetery has become an “eyesore” because the company that owned it and another cemetery where prominent black people of Memphis are laid to rest went bankrupt. There was a local group who worked to clean it up some back in 2014, but as of 2017 it was still a mess. There are broken headstones, those that are now illegible, and of course I had no access to anything with a locater for the graves. As I walked through the areas that I had enough courage to enter, I thought of Alice Walker describing her experience in seeking out Zora Neale Hurston’s resting place. I had hoped to feel the souls of my ancestors there, but I can’t say that I did. What I did recall though was Mommy lamenting that she didn’t take good care of the graves – tending to them and making sure they had fresh flowers regularly – and based on what I know now she must have meant those in Mt Carmel. She believed she wouldn’t have been able to find them.

This photo post card was found in my mother’s things and based on what was written on the back of the photo, I assume this to be Odetta Cox Thomas. I want desperately to see myself in her face and in her eyes. And I really want to know about those ankles. Where is my great-grandmother’s garden and what was in it for me? At least I know her name and her mother’s name. Perhaps in speaking her name I will find her.

Peoria Cox is my 2nd great-grandmother and I know even less about her than of Odetta. Peoria’s parents remain unknown to me except that her mother was born in Mississippi, but without any name for her mother or even Peoria’s maiden name, it is difficult to find them. Even if I did find a couple with a daughter named Odetta (and possibly a sister named Mary), I couldn’t confirm them. But if she passed on these ankles, skipping generations, I will never forgive her.

My 2nd great-grandmother was born in Arkansas and I assume she moved to Memphis with her husband and children when they were young. But the earliest address I find for her is in Memphis where she had two children, including my great-grandmother. Her daughter lived with her, likely until her marriage, and then for some time before her death. Mommy once told me that losing a child was the worst pain to suffer in the world. If that’s true, Peoria surviving her daughter also means she survived the worst pain in the world. Peoria died about 5 years after her daughter. The first census after Odetta died – the last one of Peoria’s life – listed Odetta’s daughters at two different locations. The girls obviously split their time between their maternal grandparents and their father and his aunt. Peoria died when my grandmother was a young woman and Mommy was a toddler, so I also like to think that Mommy spent some time in Peoria’s arms. If Mommy’s arms ever hugged Peoria’s neck, then those same arms cradled me and by association I have been touched by all of my known mothers.

Peoria’s immediate cause of death was cerebral hemorrhage from unknown causes – another sudden and unexpected death. She lays in the same cemetery as Odetta – Mt Carmel in Memphis. We weren’t able to find her in 2017 either.

This photo hung in my childhood home, and I know I asked Mommy who she was, but I cannot remember which relative she said. Based on the information I have I am making a guess that this is truly Peoria.  I want desperately to see myself in her face and in her eyes. And I really want to know about those ankles. Where is my 2nd great-grandmother’s garden and what was in it for me? At least I know her name and her mother’s birthplace. Perhaps in speaking her name I will find her.

DNA testing identifies us with the Bamileke Tribe of the Cameroonian peoples. This testing goes back along the line of mothers, so I like to think that Peoria passed down some traditions, recipes, and rituals from Cameroon even if the daughters didn’t know the origins. I understand that many things have interrupted the passing on of our culture – Peoria is listed as mulatto on at least one piece of documentation suggesting that one of her parents was white; slavery and colonialism worked against the passing on of anything sacred; and divorce, death, and moves across country left young girls without the ones who would have passed down anything of cultural significance. But there is always something that remains imprinted on our DNA and there is a such thing as blood memory that keeps our hearts beating to the original drums. And our souls are always looking to return to our first homes – our mothers.

I am Regina Lynette, daughter of Donna Maria, daughter of Dorothy Lee, daughter of Odetta, daughter of Peoria.

15 Min Read, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Family, grief, Mental Health, Parenting, The Mothers, What's In A Name?

Looking for Dorothy, I wanted to find a kindred spirit.

Regina Lynette

I am Regina Lynette, daughter of Donna Maria, daughter of Dorothy Lee, daughter of Odetta, daughter of Peoria. And I have been searching for myself in my mothers’ gardens. Even though I didn’t want to find myself in Dorothy for a long time, getting to know her as an ancestor has helped me to see some seeds of myself in her garden – because of Dorothy I am predictably unpredictable, and have a wandering spirit.

Dorothy Lee Thomas (Terry) was my grandmother. She was never known as grandmother but as Dorothy to Mommy’s children. Her given name is Dorothy Lee. Her maiden name is Thomas. And her married name was Terry. I don’t know if she ever married again after Warren Thomas Terry – never known as grandfather and causing some confusion with his middle name always listed and the same as my grandmother’s maiden name. She was called Dorothy. She was called mean. She was called unstable. And she was called unpredictable. Later I would know she was called a free-spirit and she was called independent.

I had a baby doll that I slept with from my first memories until she fell apart. I named her Sleepy Baby because she was sleeping, and she was a baby. I was never creative with naming my inanimate objects – my favorite teddy bear is named Bear. Sleepy Baby was all I knew of Dorothy for years, because the baby doll was a gift from her, and I remember Daddy telling me so. I don’t believe I ever met my Dorothy. I don’t have a lot of details about the last time she was in Memphis visiting the family but when Mommy was found chain-smoking and rocking in her bed, Daddy announced that Dorothy didn’t have to go home but she had to get the hell out of there. He drove her to the bus station and then Dorothy was gone. Mommy is the one who called her mother unpredictable most often. Most of the memories she shared were about times that started out happy and ended horrifically, sometimes ending in some kind of violent behavior.

This is the only photograph I have with Sleepy Baby. Not sure how long I thought holding her by her feet was the best idea. I have memories of rocking her to sleep in my arms before I went to bed myself.

Sleepy Baby was a doll made of a plush pale pink stuffed onesie with a pale plastic face, pursed pink lips, and closed eyelids. Her onesie was hooded, and yellow tufts of hair peeked out from underneath the seam. The pale pink satin ribbon was never tied in a bow as it obviously was when I got her but dangled the way ribbons on pigtails dangle at the end of the school day.

The vast majority of what I know about Dorothy consists of a timeline of events from genealogical research and imagining her reactions and responses to life events through a filter of my own experiences.

Dorothy was born on Halloween in 1925 to parents who were presumably married at the time, ages 16 and 22. She was the middle child of “stair-step” daughters – her older sister was just about 15 months older, and the baby was just about 13 months younger. Her baby sister died at about 6 months old. She and her older sister were just toddlers at the time, so I imagine the baby was just a family story for her. But it was one that she never forgot. We found a list of “characters” in Mommy’s baby book where Dorothy listed family members and Essie Mae was included. I think in a more positive series of events she would have been considered the family historian, always writing long notes on the back of photographs and in Mommy’s baby book. Dorothy would lose her mother when she was just 14 years old and then go on to live with her father and his aunt for at least the next two or three years.

Dorothy Lee, mother of Donna Maria, grandmother of Regina Lynette.

This photograph was taken during Dorothy’s high school years – I believe she attended Booker T. Washington in Memphis – and is the best photograph I’ve seen of her.

Dorothy has posed for at least one other professional photograph that I’ve seen and sent a few snapshots in letters. She wrote on the backs about how bad she looked or that she had been ill in the photographs.

I’ve compared my high school photographs with Dorothy’s trying to find myself in her face.

Regina Lynette, daughter of Donna Maria, daughter of Dorothy Lee

Here’s a picture of me in high school, wearing Fashion Fair Cherry Wine lipstick just because it was Mommy’s signature color.

Please excuse those ends. My ends hadn’t been trimmed for about 5 years and I was taking off 3 inches at a time that summer to avoid a short cut that I was not allowed to get. A few months later I turned 18, my father’s age of hair-cutting consent, and chopped it down to a chin-length bob – best decision ever.

From my own experience of losing my mother at age 13, I can assume that Dorothy was wounded emotionally in a way that only a girl-child who loses her mother in early teens can understand. I know what it is to be a Motherless Child and to be shattered by that loss.  Did Dorothy have suicidal thoughts when her mother died like I did? Did she make a feeble attempt at killing herself, wanting to be wherever it was that her mother was like I did? Did Dorothy have the same “slips” in her mental stability – and by “slips” I mean instances where your mind plays tricks on you rather than remaining in the rational and logical – that I did? Maybe she sat at the front door waiting to see headlights that meant her mother was coming home from an evening errand as many times as I did. She might have seen an usher at a church she was visiting who looked like her mother and imagined that she was back and would explain how she came back to tell her that she was in witness protection and had to fake her death. If Dorothy had any strong identity with a parent, it was likely with her mother and the loss would cause her to struggle going forth. Did the family worry about her yet spin out because they had no solutions for their own grief, much less hers like my family? I bet it was a critical break in Dorothy’s life that affected all the days of the rest of her life, and likely the first one of many.

I know that Dorothy sang well even though I never heard her. She sang in talent shows and was asked to join a male singing group when they wanted to add a female voice. If I remember correctly, this was The Platters – she was dating one of them – and I suppose this was before they added Lola Taylor. The dates don’t match up to the story in my head so maybe it wasn’t The Platters but whatever the group, as the story stands, I can imagine Dorothy might have gained some fame from joining this musical group. She wasn’t allowed to join them – Daddy Rod didn’t let her go – and I wonder could this have been the cause of a second “slip” in Dorothy’s mental stability. She probably lost that boyfriend and a dream of singing all in one single blow. This is the last time I’m aware of hearing her pursuit of a singing career and what a knock-out punch it must have been to have a dream snatched away from you. I do believe this happened shortly after her mother’s death and before her daughter was born but I have no idea of the dates to confirm. It’s exciting to know that Dorothy performed in talent shows all around the city of Memphis and heartbreaking to know that she wasn’t able to pursue a dream of a singing career. If a dream deferred causes the heart to be sick, what in the world does a dream denied cause? Another “slip” in Dorothy’s mental stability, I believe.

I was in second grade when Dorothy resurfaced for a matter of months until her death. This little girl had lost both her grandmothers and was about to gain a great-aunt and an uncle.

This is the first time I visited my “new” great-aunt, uncle, and a distant cousin in California. It was shortly after Dorothy’s death which effectively ended Mommy’s estrangement from her family, though I don’t think Dorothy was involved in the cause for the estrangement.

I imagine Dorothy as a wounded child who never found significant healing from her disappointments and the bitter side of the unfairness of life, causing her to act out sometimes. I believe Dorothy did the best she could often finding that it wasn’t enough, and maybe that made her stop trying. And in her hurting state, Dorothy probably did more than her fair share of hurting other people. Does this mean that if she had a different relationship with her father or with her sister or with her first husband that she would have been kinder? Maybe. Maybe not. If she had a successful singing career instead of a teenage pregnancy and unsuccessful marriage, would she have been stable? Maybe. Maybe not. If her mother had not died too young at age 31, would she have been more predictable? Maybe. Maybe not. And broken hearts don’t all heal the same way.

Because I want to find a kindred spirit in my grandmother, I look for myself in her garden and when you search for something you’re likely to find something – whether or not it’s truly the thing you were seeking. I’ve been called independent, like Dorothy, and I imagine I plucked those seeds from her garden. I’ve been called a free-spirit (even though I’m not sure I agree), like Dorothy, and I imagine some of those seeds came from Dorothy. I’ve been called mean and I’ve hurt others when I was hurting, like Dorothy. I’ve been called unstable, like Dorothy, and live with a Bipolar II Disorder diagnosis, unlike Dorothy. But my favorite and the one I’ve massaged the most is that I’ve been called unpredictable, predictably unpredictable to be exact.

My former college roommate called me predictably unpredictable, showing no surprise when I did or said something that seemed contradictory to my typical choices. Yes, I could be unpredictable in a way that negatively affected my loved ones and my close ones, but thankfully it’s often more benign. Some of my atypical choices receive a response similar to, “I would never have thought you’d ever want that one” or “I can’t believe you actually did that.” And generally, it’s about things like the time I sang at The Apollo Theater, when I couldn’t give up coffee and then just because it was a Saturday I lost all desire for it, or the time I called the floral print mug with a gold handle perfect. Why in the world would I jump up on stage at The Apollo Theater? I don’t sing well, even though I love to and give it all I’ve got. It was a fake show during a tour of the theater, but not something you can expect me to ever do. It was a once in a lifetime thing, and my hair was sassy, and I was enthralled by the fact that I could touch the stump for good luck, jumping on the same stage where Ella Fitzgerald first sang. I had spent my life trying not to become addicted to coffee but it became hard to start mornings without it. And then I woke up one Saturday and didn’t want any. It would be at least three days before I noticed that I didn’t want any coffee – even with the smell of fresh hot coffee brewed with cinnamon each morning – and that was that. That floral mug would have been the perfect balance to all the things I find rustic and casual. And it’s probably the only fancy mug I’ll ever want.

I am Regina Lynette, daughter of Donna Maria, daughter of Dorothy Lee, daughter of Odetta, daughter of Peoria.

15 Min Read, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Family, Mental Health, Parenting, Teaching, The Mothers

Looking for Donna, I found the seeds of my life’s dream in her garden.

Regina Lynette

I am Regina Lynette, daughter of Donna Maria. And I have been searching for myself in my mothers’ gardens. It turns out that Mommy made me want to be a good wife, a great mother, and to homeschool my children while effectively managing my household.

Mommy was strong and independent, courageous and strategic, and determined to make her life better after every choice that she considered less than ideal. Even though she chose to marry a physically abusive man in her very early 20s, she made a better choice and left him. Even though my older siblings were latchkey kids far too young and were basically unsupervised after school because she was working several jobs to provide (food, shelter, and a Christmas performance at levels that I would never experience), she was heavily involved in my education and I was never home alone after school. I had assistance with homework and projects, and she planned out my educational path up to high school graduation with the understanding that college would follow. I had my marching orders as far as my education was concerned and I learned from her the power of demonstrating and documenting your intellect. By the way, I would never have known my older siblings didn’t have the same hands-on support from Mommy – they both exceeded my educational achievements leaving me to wonder if I would have been a disappointment to my parents.

Mommy had a natural aptitude to many things and though she dropped out of school after her first year of college, she was very intelligent. Her lack of a degree (and whatever other influences) stressed to her the importance of my educational goals, which she infused in my every thought and action from my earliest memories. She praised me and made me feel like I was the smartest person in the world with every academic or intellectual achievement no matter how small. She sent me to daycare (I didn’t do pre-school) with her own learning assignments for me – things she wanted me to already have achieved before starting kindergarten and considering I would be older than the kids in my classes (my December birthday meant I started Kindergarten at 6) she wanted me to stand out. Thankfully, the teachers and caretakers took her seriously and I was learning things no other kid my age (in my educational bubble) knew. I was reading at age three and she seemed to believe that meant I knew every word that existed. Car rides were filled with my reading every word visible – states on license plates, signs, street names, and everything in between and out. When I pronounced the ‘T’ in Chevrolet or the last “S” in Arkansas, she giggled, corrected me and we had a whole conversation about words that had silent letters – which I thought made absolutely no sense. She always tried to teach me grammar and spelling hints or rules if it applied to whatever on-the-spot learning occurred while running errands.

Me at three. God was merciful with those edges over the years.
He allowed me to keep ’em and they’re pretty strong, but they won’t lay down for all the relaxer, hot combs, and edge control in the world.

She took a great interest in my lessons and drilled me on concepts outside of the school curriculum – an expansion of the lessons. And when it was obvious that I was more advanced in some ways than my classmates in my neighborhood public school, she set about making a plan. I remember when she outlined her plan. She wasn’t talking to me directly but I was in the room and somehow I knew she was also telling me the plan and giving me directions. She was venting about my schools and how absurd the curriculum and teachers were and I felt intimidated – she thought I was the best – and I was at the top of my classes academically and physically (everyone thought I would surely be very tall but apparently I just got all my height early) – but I had doubts that I really was as smart as she thought I was and the idea of disappointing her worried me. She was upset that I wasn’t allowed to choose a book above my reading level in the school library so she took me to the public library for my reading where she approved of my books – which had to be above my current reading level. (She would have me read a couple pages and if I got through it too easily I had to find something harder.) She was utterly appalled when she found out I was allowed to administer spelling tests in second grade because I’d make perfect scores on the pre-tests (a quiz on a list we hadn’t been presented with or studied in class beforehand). My teacher didn’t know that with my parents I studied my whole spelling book in the first couple weeks of school, noting the words I didn’t already know and studying them. My teacher asked me how I managed a perfect score on words I supposedly had never seen before. She was disappointed to know I studied ahead of the current lesson at home – like I was cheating in some way. She proceeded to drill me on the hardest word in each lesson going forward until I missed a word. Then somehow she seemed both pleased that I missed a word and that I knew almost all of the words (but how could I know what she was feeling since she didn’t say and I didn’t ask).

The first three years of my public school education were spent at Fairley Elementary School.

By the time I was starting third grade Mommy used someone else’s address to get me into a school that had an Optional Program (honors classes) – something another parent she knew suggested to get my foot in the door. I was tasked with checking in with my teacher on what it would take for me to be moved to an optional class as soon as possible – because another kid we knew was moved to an optional class early in the first semester and I wasn’t when she was certain I should have been. And we wouldn’t have to use someone else’s address if I was in the Optional Program so quicker was better. Mommy wrote letters to my teacher and insisted that I beg her to move me to an optional class, press her to give me an anticipated date when I could move. She even wrote to one of the teachers in the third grade optional classrooms. My second semester of third grade I was tossed into an optional classroom and suddenly my superior academic prowess dimmed significantly. The children in that class seemed eons ahead of me and they laughed when I didn’t know something while the teacher was exasperated and had no patience for me or interest in my catching up to the rest of the class. But Mommy would not be daunted – she assured me I was both worthy and able to keep up, and I did. I did it because she believed I could. In hindsight the teachers probably were annoyed with Mommy’s persistence.

At Oakshire Elementary School, I was constantly scared of failing and of achieving at the same time. In the Spelling Bee, I purposely misspelled my word because I didn’t think I should know that word. And I also didn’t want anymore pressure – I only wanted to go sit by my mother.

By this time, Mommy had planned my grade school educational path through a number of schools rated higher than my neighborhood schools on through high school graduation – I guess she was still considering colleges at the time. The only detour I made from her plan happened after fifth grade. The school system decided to take all the schools’ individual Optional Programs out and put them in one school, grades K through Freshman level (because it was Junior High rather than Middle School back then – 9th grade has since been moved to all high schools). I was tasked with checking in with my fifth-grade teacher regularly when Mommy found out about that school because the first class of students for each grade had to be recommended by a teacher. With all the schools in the system, this new school would only have two classrooms for each grade, limiting the number of students who could attend. After that first year, students would have to test into the school. Fortunately, this teacher believed in me very early on and worked along with Mommy to make sure my grades supported her recommendation. When Mommy had me ask her specifically and plainly to recommend me for the school, my teacher told me I was already on her list and she actually beamed at me.

I was proud to be in the first classes at John P. Freeman Elementary and Junior High School. My confidence in my intellect bloomed and crossed into arrogance. I also began noticing boys in 7th grade. I was driven to distraction by the smart ones. I guess you could say I came out as sapiosexual.

While I was at this new school, feeling especially smart, Mommy talked to her brother in California about his job path – which all I knew was that it had something to do with computers which sounded fun – and determined that I would follow his footsteps to getting a good job in a good industry. She had been watching me from younger years when I first saw a computer at her friend’s house. We called on one of her work friends in the days when I needed a sitter who just happened to have a computer at home that I spent hours exploring. When she saw I was excited about it she was certain computers would be my life and I got a computer with a programming book (because what small child interested in playing computer games doesn’t need to know computer programming).

Mommy died before I went to high school but with a sister working at Mommy’s designated high school for me and with the ability to continue in honors level courses there was no issue with my attending that high school. I was even wise enough to quiz my junior high guidance counselor on how to ensure I was able to attend the school so I’d be prepared – I had learned from Mommy how to make sure I was doing what I needed to get to the next level we wanted rather than allowing other people to decide what my next steps were.

I’m certain I would have continued to prosper academically if she had lived beyond my high school graduation. I probably would have continued to prosper academically in high school if my father hadn’t married my step-monster. But living with an abusive monster while emotionally abandoned by my father who had remarried before I could even get a grip on grieving my mother, and the deep depression that followed (undiagnosed) made all things school a struggle. I nearly wrecked my entire grade school academic career with my last semester of high school.

At Memphis Central High School I completed my grade school education and prepared for college, making progress on Mommy’s educational goals for me without her direct hand for the first time. I graduated with a major in Computer Science and a minor in Mathematics in high school.

I tried to follow the Computer Science educational path in college, but I remained drowning under water through all five years I was in undergrad, starting out on academic probation my second semester (thus five years in college rather than four). Eventually during the course of those five years I changed my major to one that my family found quite disappointing. Regardless of the academic struggles, I self-identified as smart and carried myself accordingly. When I didn’t know something, it upset me. Whoever introduced this idea that I didn’t know or understand would then be interviewed until they were exhausted so I could learn this thing I didn’t know, and I wanted them to provide resources to make sure I was learning the right thing. When someone assumed I didn’t know something I was arrogant. “The audacity, the unmitigated gall that you would assume I wasn’t as smart as you?” And I’d roll out a stream of information on whatever the topic was – even if I wasn’t sure about it or knew it wasn’t entirely accurate – and dare you to think less of me ever again. Those who were arrogant about it, clearly needing to assert themselves over me were usually dismissed. Those who continued to present ideas and concepts whetted my appetite for learning more and more about that topic.

By the time I graduated from The University of Tennessee at Knoxville I was exhausted with school and thought I was going to make a difference in some other child’s life, ensuring that they not only got a great education but that they enjoyed the process and made their own choices in guiding their path.

This brings me to the harvest I reaped from Mommy’s garden, seeds I’m not sure she knew she planted. She was home with me for at least half of my years guiding and supporting my educational path. I remember at a very young age determining that children needed their parents at home for them after school because you couldn’t trust their education to any school system. While I was in college, I dreamed of having babies (birthing or adopting or fostering) and homeschooling them. I crafted a learning path in college dedicated to equipping me to be a good wife, a good home manager, and a great mother – in addition to early childhood education and child development I chose courses in family systems, interpersonal communication, and literature for children. That desire is consistently in my heart, surfacing in various manifestations daily, always and unfortunately as a dream deferred. We’ll talk about how I feel about God’s apparent plans versus mine (and Mommy’s) another time.

I am Regina Lynette, daughter of Donna Maria, daughter of Dorothy Lee, daughter of Odetta, daughter of Peoria.

10 Min Read, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Family, Parenting, Relationships, Robert Samuel Walker, Smart and Pretty, What's In A Name?

I am Regina Lynette, daughter of Donna Maria.

Regina Lynette

In the year 1889 in the perfect month on the perfect day, Peoria was born in Arkansas. Twenty years after her birth in 1909 in the perfect month on the perfect day, Peoria gave birth to Odetta in Arkansas. While Odetta was yet 16 years old, she gave birth to Dorothy Lee on October 31, 1925 in Memphis, Tennessee. Dorothy Lee was also 16 years old when she gave birth to her daughter, Donna Maria on September 16, 1942 in Memphis, Tennessee. And when Donna Maria was in her 33rd year of life, she gave birth to me on December 12 in Memphis, Tennessee. I am Regina Lynette, daughter of Donna Maria, daughter of Dorothy Lee, daughter of Odetta, daughter of Peoria.

Peoria Cox {circa 1889 – December 10, 1945}; Mothers unkown

My mother told me who this was when I was a child, but I regrettably do not recall what she said. For many reasons, I have made a guess that this is Peoria. I have no way to know if that’s accurate but until I get different information, the person in this photo represents Peoria, my mother’s great grandmother.”

Peoria, who gave birth at 20 years old to Odetta, lost that girlchild a mere 31 years later to apoplexy due to interstitial nephritis. Peoria was presumably involved in her granddaughter, Dorothy Lee’s, life until her own death on December 10, 1945, of cerebral hemorrhage due to unknown causes. Peoria outlived her daughter – my mother often said that losing a child was the worst pain in the world so I declare that Peoria survived the worst pain that life could dish out. Dorothy Lee, who lost her mother at 14, gave birth 2 years later without her mother. I declare that Dorothy Lee’s losing her mother as a young teenager was something incredibly difficult because losing my own mother as a young teenager was incredibly difficult. Donna Maria was born without a grandmother. She was but 3 when her great-grandmother died – who we only presume was involved in her life. But Donna Maria outlived her mother, Dorothy, who died of cancer while Donna was 42 years old. I would not know Peoria existed until I was an adult and even then, she was only a name in a baby book and on a death certificate. I did not know that Odetta Cox existed until I was in college and at that time she was only a name in an email provided through my uncle from a distant cousin, a name in a baby book and a name on a death certificate. I knew of Dorothy Lee but never met her before her death when I was 8 years old. I lost my mother from a heart attack about 5 years later, 2 weeks after my 13th birthday.

Odetta (Cox) Thomas {circa 1909 – March 24, 1940}; Daughter of Peoria Cox

I am not certain that this photo is my great-grandmother but based on a relatively reasonable deduction, I think this is Odetta.

My maternal ancestry can be traced back to the Bamileke (a corruption of the name) People of Cameroon and this has been guaranteed accurate from Odetta. Where did that heritage die out? Did Peoria – who is not guaranteed by our DNA testing to be from the Bamileke People of Cameroon – pass down any traditions, rituals or recipes to Odetta? Dorothy didn’t live her entire childhood with Peoria and Odetta so would she even have been passed down anything of her maternal line? Was our heritage completely wiped out by the ins and outs of slavery leaving Dorothy, her mother and her grandmother to have little to pass on? I don’t know. I’m left to put pieces together from birthdates, death certificates, and general world history. Peoria was born a free woman but her mother would have likely been born a slave and then freed by the time Odetta was born. I have no details for Peoria’s mother’s history – not even Peoria’s maiden name. I am happy to know my mothers’ names from my great-great grandmother. But I know very little about their gardens because 2 weeks after my 13th birthday, they were all gone.

How simple a thing it seems to me that to know ourselves as we are, we must know our mothers’ names.

Alice Walker, O Magazine, May 2003

“Mama’s baby, daddy’s maybe” was not the prevalent pattern in my family. Hardy Cox was in his daughter, Odetta’s, life. Rodney Thomas cared for his daughters after Odetta’s death as well as my mother, his granddaughter, and her children. While I don’t know the story behind Warren Terry’s absence in Donna’s life beyond the time he enlisted in the army during World War II, he was married to her mother and his family is mentioned as a part of her young life. And I was Robert Walker’s Daddy’s Girl, identifying more with his side of the family than my mother’s. In fact, most of what I know to be true and passed down in my family is from the men. I’m grateful for these men because I can attribute a lot of positive things from their influence. However, I really miss not knowing my maternal tribe.

Dorothy Lee Thomas {October 31, 1925 – May 15, 1985}; daughter of Odetta (Cox) Thomas, daughter of Peoria Cox

This is a photo of Dorothy from high school. I have more recent photographs of her but she wrote notes on the backs of them stating that she looked horrible and was ill (or convalescing).

A few years ago I felt particularly lost and was looking to find myself in my family. Since I was nothing like my siblings and not a lot like my mother (other than sometimes my eyes and sometimes my smile), I looked to my father’s family. I didn’t find my face (other than my happiest smile), my body, nor my personality in any of them. Much later I caught a glimpse of myself (personality) in my mother’s brother and I realized that I hadn’t looked to find myself in my mothers’ gardens. I’ve decided to use the photos in this entry to represent these mothers in my sacred space and I constantly look for myself in their eyes and faces and hands and hair.

Our mothers are our first homes, and that’s why we’re always trying to return to them.

Michele Filgate, What My Mother and I Don’t Talk About (Simon & Schuster, 2019)

One good thing about the deceased is that the rest of the generations to come have a chance to only know the best of that person. I don’t mean that the bad goes away or that you shouldn’t know the full history of a person – generational curses, ancestral rituals, as well as their life stories. I mean that when I tell stories about my parents, I tell the hard parts through a filter of both understanding and acceptance. I’ve had to forgive them for all of their mistakes. I’d begun the forgiveness process with Daddy before he died, thankfully, but I didn’t realize I had to forgive my mother until she had been gone several years (and family secrets were revealed). I have tried to understand Dorothy as well when I hear hard things about her, often trying to guess what might have happened to her to cause poor behaviors. When my sister’s children indulge me and let me walk them around Memphis telling tales of our history, it’s “my parents met in this lobby and it was love at first sight” rather than “my Daddy was married and 24 years older than my Mommy when they started their affair”. Neither version is a secret and while both are true, one is more fun to talk about to the ones who didn’t know them.

Donna Maria (Terry/Thomas) Walker {September 16, 1942 – December 26, 1989}; daughter of Dorothy Lee, daughter of Odetta, daughter of Peoria

Mommy’s parents married a couple months after she was born and her maiden name on her birth certificate is Thomas (Dorothy’s maiden name). However, I found a doodle from either Dorothy or Mommy that had Terry (Donna’s father) as her last name – kind of the way you doodle your own name with your crush’s last name in your school notebooks.

So, while unfortunately I do not know of any remaining family who can share stories about my generations of mothers, I do get to put the pieces together guessing the best outcomes and I can channel my own femininity from common Bamileke/Cameroonian ancestral rituals and fill in the gaps with pieces of myself.

Regina Lynette Walker; daughter of Donna Maria, daughter of Dorothy Lee, daughter of Odetta, daughter of Peoria

I am Regina Lynette, daughter of Donna Maria, daughter of Dorothy Lee, daughter of Odetta, daughter of Peoria.

5 Min Read, Brothers And Sisters, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Family, Holidays, Robert Samuel Walker

I love May 27th.

Regina Lynette

My mother went to work on a Thursday, May 27th as Donna Maria Thomas. She came back from her lunch break as Donna Maria Walker. That was the story. In my parents’ romance, lunch hours were never a time for actually eating lunch, but for things like making out on park benches and running down the street to the courthouse to get married. I remember making my parents recount the details for their 11th anniversary – that 11th anniversary was a little over 6 months before my 11th birthday. (It wouldn’t fully dawn on me that I attended that blessed event until sometime after my mother’s death I received a bible with their wedding anniversary and my birthday written together as events in the same calendar year.) I don’t remember my parents ever celebrating their wedding anniversary, but they both remembered it every year. It wasn’t strange to me that my parents didn’t celebrate their wedding anniversary – I never saw any parents doing that except on television. However, I considered it a significant milestone for my own life without any encouragement from anyone else.

Something else very special happened on a May 27th – my little sister was born on a Friday. As her mother, my Godmother, promised me she was born while I was safely at home away from the “drama”. I was nervous when she was heavily pregnant that she would suddenly go into labor like the ladies did on sitcoms and I didn’t want to be around when that happened. I remembered thinking, how perfect is it that my sister – who is not my parents’ child – was born on my parents’ anniversary? Why is that perfect? I don’t know exactly – I didn’t know then either.

May 27th has always felt like an important date for me. Maybe it was my parents’ anniversary but if I hadn’t come along when I did, how many more years beyond those 11 would they have continued their on-again, off-again romance? I used to get a kick out of the phrase “May-December Romance” because my parents were born 24 years apart and were the very definition of a May-December romance. And they got married in May. And I was born in December. And on another May 27th, I was gifted a baby sister. Yep – in my mind in those years that’s who she was to me, a gift. I knew even at age 6 to be chosen as a sister was something altogether different than being born into sisterhood. Neither is greater than the other but the intention behind the former is impossible to dismiss.

After I sent my sister birthday wishes, I decided to write about how I love May 27th. In December I explained how I hate December 26th (the day my mother died). In February I wrote about how I used to hate Valentine’s Day (the day my father died). Then I wrote about hating Mother’s Day. And Father’s Day is next month (and yes, I hate it too). So, I thought I’d throw in some of the days I have managed to love. I don’t have a lot of emotional and detailed events to share about why I love May 27th except that it’s the day that my parents came together, and the day my baby sister was presented to the world. It feels like God made that day just for me.

I love May 27th.

10 Min Read, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Family, grief, Holidays, Mental Health, Parenting, Relationships, Robert Samuel Walker

I hate Mother’s Day.

Regina Lynette

As a child Mother’s Day was not a huge deal to me specifically. It was always hot that Sunday. I would usually have a new shorts ensemble. I don’t think it was a “ring curls” event but I can’t really remember and for some reason I can’t find a single photograph from Mother’s Day. And as a motherless child with a dream of parenting deferred, it was hell and now it’s just unpleasant. But I remain slightly melodramatic and declare I hate Mother’s Day.

At my church – the place where I was baptized and a member until my last year of high school, Mother’s Day events happened for my family mostly on the Sunday and Saturday before. We still attended whatever rehearsal or practice or meeting that was scheduled even though we weren’t going to be in town on that Sunday. And at the end of either the Sunday before Mother’s Day or on that Saturday just before the day, we’d go to the ladies with the trays of corsages – carnations made from tissues – in red and white. I can’t be certain, and it doesn’t seem quite right, but in my mind the ladies were selling these faux carnations. We received 3 – white for Daddy and red for me and Mommy. Remembering this transaction means this memory happened only a couple years but they were obviously poignant years. It was after Grandmommy died and before Dorothy died. (Mommy’s mother was always identified by her first name instead of any version of Grand Mother.)

And for a period of time, I remember the 3 carnations – one white and 2 red – carried a little bit of pride and a little bit of sadness. I was sad that Daddy had to wear a white carnation, but he seemed to wear it proudly. And I took on that emotion and carried it as if it were my own. I was sad that Mommy wore a red flower and as she pinned it on her left side she’d always say, “I don’t know if my mother is dead or alive so I will wear red. I hope she’s still alive.” She was sad, but hopeful to some degree and I took on that emotion, added it to Daddy’s, and carried it as if it were my own. And then she pinned my red flower on my left side, and I was proud. My mommy was still alive, and I saw her every day and I knew for sure that she loved me. I chose to put my feelings in my back pocket, carrying my parents’ emotions as an expression of loyalty. Even though she received the tissue carnations from the church ladies, we usually wore a different faux flower, a pretty one that Mommy bought, to go to Mississippi.

If my memories are accurate, we went to Corinth and Rienzi in Mississippi – the place Daddy always called home – every Mother’s Day until I graduated high school. I don’t remember the years before Grandmommy’s death vividly – just little flashes of only her like when she saved me from a grasshopper and would have to call me out to come and greet her because I was too shy to just jump in and hug her when we got to her trailer on my uncle’s land. I’d hang outside the door or against a wall, maybe hiding behind Daddy’s leg until she asked about me.

We dressed in our Sunday best, I remember Daddy wearing his clergy collar and I felt like it made him royalty for a Sunday. We’d get into the car and drive toward the country. We would make one stop before heading to church – the church I always believed my entire family for generations belonged, even though truthfully I don’t know for sure how many generations before my father’s attended that church.  We’d stop where Grandmommy was buried, beside the grandfather I never knew and Daddy would go alone. Then we were off to Mount Pleasant Missionary Baptist Church. On the way to finding a seat we’d speak to everyone – I told you I felt like Daddy was royalty that day, greeting all of the parishioners who seemed so excited to see him. I determined after all those greetings that we were related to no less than half of the congregants. Daddy preached the sermon. My aunties and cousins sang in the choir. My uncle was a deacon and usually led devotion. After the service was over we spoke to the people we missed or who arrived late. This is when I tried to figure out how I was going to ride to my uncle’s house with my uncle. Most of the time that meant finding his wife, my auntie, because she always just told me I was going with them. There was no asking permission and no risk of hearing “no”. Uncle would always call me his “pretty little niece” when we greeted and for some reason my braids and shoes didn’t feel so tight anymore. We’d head to my uncle’s house where I’d change into my shorts ensemble to play with my cousins. Sometimes we ate at my auntie’s house in Corinth and sometimes she came to my uncle’s house in Rienzi. The fried chicken – Grandmommy’s recipe – was the star of the meal for me. After filling up on dinner and getting to have sodas – pops – without permission (carbonated water irritated my system so they were off limits) I spent the rest of the day playing with my cousins. We’d return to the city (Memphis), and we’d do it all again in one year’s time. Nothing about that day meant Mother’s Day to me. It might as well have been called Mississippi Day.

When I was 6 or 7 years old, Dorothy surfaced. She was dying of cancer and the family who had been estranged to Mommy for what seemed my entire life were calling her to California. After what felt like an eternity of Mommy sitting at her mother’s bedside, she came back home to me. But Dorothy took another turn without Mommy with her, was refusing to obey some doctor’s order – like eat or something – and was calling for Mommy to return to her. I wanted to go but she was going for an indefinite period of time and I had school. Dorothy died a few days after she returned to California and it ended up being about 2 weeks from the time she returned to California, Dorothy died and was cremated, and Mommy returned home to me. The next 4 or 5 Mother’s Days, mommy wore a white flower. Even though she seemed sad, she also seemed relieved to a degree. She would shed a couple tears, but I think just knowing for certain whether Dorothy was dead or alive was enough. I also think whatever happened in Dorothy’s last days allowed Mommy some closure if not a repair of over 40 years of a challenging mother-daughter relationship and she could more easily wear that white flower.

Two weeks after my 13th birthday, I lost my own mother. That first Sunday going to Mississippi the only assertion of my own rights (as opposed to unspoken rules) was to wear a white corsage, one that chose and found beautiful, and I wore a white dress. Even though I had been sitting alone at church services for about 5 months, that Sunday felt particularly lonely. And it was the last time I would wear a white flower. The main reason was because that white flower served no purpose to me and all it did was made me angry. But the secondary reason was because people – I think Daddy was one of them – told me to wear a red flower because I had a step-monster the next year. I hated the entire system of red and white flowers and determined to leave Mother’s Day on the calendar as simply the 2nd Sunday of May and Mississippi Day. Who the hell thought I was supposed to replace my white flower with a red one because of a step-monster? Did no one see that it meant replacing my mother and dismissing that she ever existed? Why didn’t anyone think of at least saying I should wear 2 flowers to represent both women? I wouldn’t have but at least they wouldn’t be suggesting that I erase my mother completely and embrace the monster that my father married in her place.

I tried to pass on some love for Mother’s Day to the other “mothers” in my life. I tried to come up with something to honor Sissy because she was a mother. I always made sure to tell Ms. Bell because she loved me with a mother’s heart and hand, but she was gone I believe just about two years after my mother. But it soon felt that acknowledging other mothers meant dismissing my mother further. It highlighted her absence and was painful. I would be in my 20s before I realized I needed help for my grief and I was going to have to find it for myself – professional help. Until then whenever I remembered Mommy, I felt the exact same trauma and pain that I felt the moment I found her. Once I had been alive longer than I had had her in my life, I determined the pain should have lessened over the years and that it was a problem.

After finding more peace with the loss of my mother and dealing with the associated trauma, I still found I hated Mother’s Day. For at least a week prior, everyone from the checkout counters in stores to the man who detailed my car, wished me a Happy Mother’s Day. And people who knew I wasn’t a mother came up with a list of reasons I should still be recognized as a mother – aunties and sisters and nearly all women were recognized as a mother for Mother’s Day. And in addition to highlighting the fact that Mommy was gone, I was reminded that years were ticking by that I imagined I would have had my own kids. And then I’d approached the age where I’d decided that I would give up on biological children and began grieving my children who didn’t exist and a dream I’d had since I was 11 years old. So, I started staying indoors on Mother’s Day avoiding social media, heartsick.

What happens to a dream deferred? Hope deferred makes the heart sick, But when desire is fulfilled, it is a tree of life. (Langston Hughes, Harlem plus Proverbs 13:12 AMP)

The only joy I find is knowing that my niece and nephew make sure to celebrate and honor Sissy. I hate carnations and sometimes have peonies in a vase on the day for myself – my favorite flower. I celebrate Mommy’s birthday as Mother’s Day, my Mother’s Day, instead of the 2nd Sunday of May with cupcakes and champagne and tulips – her favorite flower – when I can find them (her birthday is in fall). And I wish the mothers in my family a Happy Mother’s Day on the Monday after.

I hate Mother’s Day.

5 Min Read, Brothers And Sisters, Doggie Auntie, Family

I am Regina Lynette. And I am an Auntie.

Regina Lynette

I was born an auntie. My father had four grandchildren before I was born. I met two more nephews and a niece when they were born while I was still a little girl. And by the time I was thirteen the only nephew I would spend years with was born. And when I was seventeen, the only niece I would spend years with was born. My older nieces were having babies and there are three (or more) great-nieces and great-nephews I never met.

The only nephew and niece that I have spent significant time with are Sissy’s children. Her son was my mother’s first grandchild, and we were excited from the day we knew he was conceived. Unfortunately, Mommy died about two months before he was born. I spent my days and years with them, dreaming of how I would spoil them and wanted to be their favorite auntie – they have two other paternal aunties. I insisted at age thirteen that they would call me Aunt Gina and I was very invested in their day-to-day care, despite living in a different city and state for the first 10 years of my nephew’s life (the first 6 years of his sister’s life). Then I moved in with them for a few years – Rebel Gina years unfortunately – and made an effort to be what I thought they needed from an auntie. I was both playmate and caretaker. One of my favorite days with them was when we went to Burger King for kids’ meals and Rugrats watches before we went to the theater to watch the Rugrats movie. And then we sang the soundtrack all the way back home.

I lived with them again recently and I ended up being an auntie in a different way. My nephew had a German Shepherd, Simba, when we moved into the house where I live now. I was instructed to meet this dog when he was a puppy and bring him a toy because he was going to have professional training to be a guard dog and he needed to know I was included in the pack. I saw him as a puppy and when I saw him again, he was tall as me on his hind legs. I was scared to death of him until I got to know him – he was so sweet and sensitive and gentle. Came to check on me when I fell down the stairs. Got depressed when he realized he was home alone with me overnight. And kept all of us safe from harm, even from each other. And though this wasn’t their first dog, this was the first dog that treated me like an auntie. He only wanted to be with me if I had a treat – and he was constantly checking my hands and pockets for goodies (admittedly there was often something there for him). When his owner was around I was playmate, and when he wasn’t I was caretaker. I stayed on the hunt for his favorite bones and toys, managed his food intake so he stayed at a healthy weight, and took him with me for walks around the neighborhood. Then, sadly, he passed away.

Simba relaxing with one of his favorite toys on the lanai.

Later, after my nephew moved into his own place, he got a Rottweiler puppy, Juice. I didn’t want to be as involved in his life as I was Simba’s and since he didn’t officially live with us, I thought I could manage that easily. I did have to meet him as a small puppy to be known as one of the pack and after I’d bought his love, I tried to pull back a bit. I wanted to pet him for about 15 minutes when he came to visit, give him ice cubes when we were outside, and then not be bothered. Then came another Rottweiler puppy, Gin (yep, there are a pair of dogs here right now named Gin and Juice). Gin wasn’t terribly interested in the humans – Juice picked her out and she was only interested in him. I had to make friends with her for the same reason I did with Simba and Juice. And like I was with Simba, I was a #DoggieAuntie again. This time my niece also claimed her status as #DoggieAuntie.

Juice picked out Gin and here they’re getting to know each other before she came home with him.

Life happened and my nephew needed help with life which included caring for the pups. So my bond with them is growing because I am expanding my caretaker role. But they already treat me like an auntie so it’s a little more difficult with the training. They expect me to continue to be playmate. My spare time includes helping with training, feeding, walking, and poo duty which until now I’d vowed to never be involved with the things that came out of them. And I do it for my nephew. And I do it for Sissy. And I guess I do it for the dogs, too.

Gin and Juice – Best friends forever

Aunties are special creations. In every good Auntie there is a sister, a friend, and a mother. I was never able to care for and provide material things for my nieces and nephews in the way I’d hoped – their parents were all in a very different financial lane than I’ve ever been. And I always wanted to be more for my father’s grandchildren, even those who were older than I. There was always tension from our family structure and family choices and now, unfortunately, we are estranged. But I have always wanted to be a pillar when they needed it. I’ve always wanted them to have the things that they wanted. I’ve always wanted to spare them pain – even if it was a natural part of growing up that they needed to experience.

I’m not a perfect auntie. I don’t know if I’m a favorite auntie – how can you have favorites among the ones you love? And I’m not quite the auntie I set out to be. But I am a good auntie. When they need something, I do what I can to make sure they get it. When they want something, I try to get it or convince their parents to get it or pray for them to have it. And when they need to be loved, I love them like a friend and playmate, I love them like a sister, and I love them like a mother. I love being an auntie. Some days I think I was meant to be an auntie, possibly instead of being the mother I always wanted to be. Sometimes you don’t get what you want, but you get what you need.

I am Regina Lynette, Auntie.

5 Min Read, Soundtracks and Playlists, Spirituality

Neo-Soul exposed my Birth-Soul

Regina Lynette

The year was 1996 and I was working at Lerner New York (formerly Lerner; currently New York & Company) folding t-shirts on a table at the front of the store, planted as the deterrent for theft and the official greeter. A song played on the store’s new soundtrack for the month and it was love at first beat. On my break I searched the song title from the store playlist and went to the music store upstairs (I can’t remember what it was called because it changed nearly every year) to get my CD. I didn’t need to listen to it for free before purchasing on nasty community headphones used to sample music and was completely content that it was in my locker waiting for a late-night play on my shelf system at home during a “burn” to a cassette. Sadly, my car only played cassette tapes – which wasn’t weird for the year, but I was a few minutes behind the times not having a CD deck in the trunk of my car. And that aux setup for your portable CD player was a track-skipping nightmare. That CD was Maxwell’s Urban Hang Suite and I listened to each track with my full attention catching every beat, horn, bass, and lyric. Despite that very long description of that moment, this post isn’t about Maxwell’s debut album. It’s about two artists I fell for much later after deciding that I was all about this Neo-Soul genre. Ms. Erykah Badu (1997) and Ms. Jill Scott (2000).

Neo-Soul caused a shift in the air of my everyday world. When I entered college, I was finally free to figure out who I really was at the core of my being. I was reaching into the depths of my soul to that which was planted in me when I was conceived, created, and born. Pretty soon after you’re born your parents put you on the best path they can so that you become a person who makes a strong and positive contribution to your family legacy and to the world, right? But they don’t always get it quite right – like my parents. And after Mommy died, I realized her plans for me basically ended after college graduation, and that I was living her plan for my life and had no other. Freshman year of college I learned I was going to have to change the major she intended for me and thus began my birth-soul* search. And while Maxwell, Lauryn Hill, Love Jones, and so many other artists and films contributed to this awakening of my birth-soul*, Erykah Badu and Jill Scott contributed in a different way. It was as if everything of the late 90’s created a foundation and Erykah Badu and Jill Scott came and painted murals all over that foundation. Those years, though personally tumultuous, were a time where it was beautiful to be black. It was full of rich chocolate browns, royal blues and purples, denim, leather, and the overly perfumed sprays of peaches, pears, and waters. I think I watched Love Jones every Friday night between 1997 and 2000. I literally didn’t want to leave the theater after watching The Best Man. It was a time to rival the 70s Black Is Beautiful atmosphere of the world.

As I prepared for the Erykah Badu/Jill Scott Versuz I realized how much these ladies/queens/goddesses contributed to the soundtrack of my life. Ms. Erykah Badu unearthed my love of herbal teas and tisanes, and my talent for creating a calming atmosphere. Ms. Jill Scott showed me the beauty of my original design and the earthy chocolate brown love that I bring as a Black American woman.

Erykah Badu’s debut album and the following live version spoke of a life I never knew. Then someone was planted to briefly cross my path and give me a book – I love when God uses the universe for me that way. I read Queen Afua’s Sacred Woman: A Guide to Healing the Feminine Body, Mind and changed my eating and drinking habits from the soul-food and processed foods on which I lived (or maybe survived is a better term). I saw her in impossibly tall head wraps, ankh jewelry, torn and cut t-shirts and saw glimpses into myself. My introduction to the ankh changed my opinion of the Christian cross – I choose the ankh because it is life-affirming while for me the cross is a reminder of a horrible death. I see the effects of “meeting” Erykah Badu all over my life years later. And I am grateful that she broke me open and showed me that life could be a different color than my parents painted for me.

Jill Scott’s debut album took a little longer to win me over. It had absolutely nothing to do with her, her talent, nor her artistry, but because of the state of my life in 2000. I was angry just in general and I didn’t even notice until my sister called me Rebel Gina. She brought to my attention that my wardrobe consisted solely of the colors olive green and black – grey and black for work and church. I was essentially in military camo. But hearing ‘Gettin’ in The Way’ on the radio at work was enough to purchase the CD on September 16, 2000. I remember the actual date because I was grieving my mother for her birthday, so much so that I couldn’t go in to work that day. I ate comfort foods and listened to her words and sounds and was uplifted by the end of the day. Jill Scott showed me the poetry of life which lead me to reading poetry for the first time in my life. She talked about heartbreaks that can be healed when you love yourself. And I opened up to the possibilities of real and true and good love. It led to one of the most significant relationships of my life and the healing of a previous relationship that left me shattered.

I am a Christian and I have mixed emotions about admitting the truth that Erykah Badu and Jill Scott healed my wounds and paved the way for my soul to shine much more so than my Christian path. But for the sake of being really honest, Christians and their ministering intentions didn’t touch what neo-soul did for my birth-soul*. How many times have I been told, “read your Bible and pray” as a catch-all remedy for whatever was going on in my life? Now, make no mistake, I believe it is necessary to my Christian path to read my Bible and pray. But there is something different about sharing your real-life experience and how you overcame similar suffering. Not one of the Christians who ministered to me accepted that I live with a Bipolar Disorder II diagnosis and maintain mood stability with medication. Not one of the Christians who ministered to me told me about how life-long dreams can seem to never come true despite everything you put out there. Not one of the Christians who ministered to me has waited decades to walk in their purpose with no idea if it really will come to pass. Not one of them was ever love-sick.

Erykah Badu and Jill Scott allowed Gina to begin to shine from her southern roots. Neo-soul perfumed my air with patchouli, sandalwood, jasmine, and vanilla. Neo-Soul colored my days in rich earth tones. Neo-Soul filled in and rounded out my spirituality. Neo-Soul showed me that not only nerds love words and that artists are found everywhere – not just in fine arts. And I am so grateful for what neo-soul did for my birth-soul*.

*I’m tragically defining “birth-soul” as the inner “real me” – the person Gina was created and intended to be.

5 Min Read, Parenting, Relationships, Robert Samuel Walker, Spirituality, What's In A Name?

Runaway Spirit or Wandering Spirit?

Regina Lynette

I once walked away from Christianity as I knew it. I didn’t exactly denounce Christ as my savior, but I let go of every single thing except the fact that I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and savior and was therefore saved – my anchor point of remaining a Christian. I joked (because it was uncomfortable to talk about) that I was going AWOL from the Army of the Lord. I wanted, no needed, to let go of everything and get down to the basics. I stripped away everything that felt limiting and tried everything I found curious. I wanted to learn for myself what it meant to be a Christian because my teachers and preachers had taken Christianity and packaged it in manipulation and contradictory philosophies bound with illogical rules that were not Biblical. This action didn’t please Daddy, although he wasn’t around for the peak of my departure. He was around when I started questioning things and even challenging him on things. Most often he responded to me calmly, matter-of-fact-ly (I did that on purpose), and honestly. Occasionally he reacted from past traumas from past experiences with “church-folk”. But never did he use Christianity or our Baptist beliefs as a weapon or a tool to sway me in any direction. So when my questions turned to a need to physically explore, he told me it was okay. He said that I have a wandering spirit and though he didn’t say it explicitly, he believed that because Christianity, specifically Missionary Baptist was the truth and the way that I would return.

At the peak of my departure from Christianity as I knew it, I had a couple of close friends who were “church friends”. Our friendship was based on living according to Christian principles and almost served an explicit purpose of keeping each other on the straight and narrow. While I knew they were very pious, I didn’t learn the nature of our friendship until it ended, you know 20/20. When I was exposed to the leaders and preachers that they followed and called anointed, I began to see more of the hypocritical and manipulative tactics used against parishioners and their ignorance and this caused fissures in the friendships. I was told that I have a runaway spirit – among other demonic spirits that had supposedly overcome me.

Senior year of college, standing in front of the church I belonged to at the time. A friend is cut out of the picture.
Dear friend, if you remember being in this photo, it’s nothing personal but I just needed to be a solo picture and I didn’t find another.

Wandering Spirit was a compliment and Runaway Spirit was an insult. Well, maybe Wandering Spirit wasn’t intended exactly as a compliment but it was something that my father saw in me and accepted, allowing me to choose to embrace it if I wanted. Is that really true? Yep. Runaway Spirit was a term to encourage me to get back on track, whatever that was, and it felt derogatory and manipulative. Is that really true? Eh…

I’ve only shared one situation here in which I was called a Wandering Spirit by my father and a Runaway Spirit by others but both of those identifiers have a long list of items behind them. And my behavior has been both Wandering and Runaway at times. When I learn that something I’ve always believed is true is flawed in some way, I need to test it for myself. I need to get to the root of the truth, the unadulterated truth, the pure truth, and I need to be right – not insisting that people agree with me no matter what but to know the thing that is true and right. When something is no longer serving me I let it go – sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, but always completely. When a person is crushing my spirit or rejects the parts of me that they don’t particularly like or understand, I remove them from the closest parts of my spirit, my soul, my heart. And anything that gives me bad vibes – a space or a person – is something I leave quickly. If I wander and don’t return to the thing I wandered off from, have I runaway?

College years again, at a collegiate Christian conference. Again, a friend is cut out of the picture.
Dear friend, we took a lot of college + church photos together. And I didn’t find any of me alone. Nothing personal.

Runaway spirit is an identifier, placed on me by limiting and closed minded people, probably with what they believe to be good intentions. I’ve left it behind.

As a little girl Mommy would always tell me to stay with her whenever we entered a store. If my big brother or sister was with us I would beg to go with them. Sometimes she let me but often she insisted I stay by her side. I think that every single time we entered any of the stores we entered during all 13 years I had her in my life that I managed to get lost in that store to some degree. Eventually I mastered the return quickly enough to not cause too much trouble but it all depended on what caught my eye and prompted me to wander off. Sissy has told me that often she turns to say something to me when we’re walking and suddenly I’m not there. And there have been plenty of times that I’ve had to stand still and be found in a store, like I did three weeks ago. As an adult I’ve truly felt like telling a stranger that I lost my sister in a store so I can get some help. But it’s always because I’ve needed to know more about something I’ve seen. And I always return to the original purpose of our outing.

Runaway Spirit or Wandering Spirit?

Iam Regina Lynette. I am a Wandering Spirit.

5 Min Read, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, My Body, Parenting, Smart and Pretty, Why This Blog?

I absolutely hate having my photograph taken.

Regina Lynette

When I decided to explore my identity publicly via this blog I decided to include a photograph of myself with each post. This makes me extremely uncomfortable but I thought it was an important part of my identity – the entire topic of the blog. And I believed it would be a way to become more comfortable with my appearance and photographs.

I didn’t always hate having my picture taken. When I was a kid I photo-bombed as much as possible before it was a thing. I can remember actually crying real tears when Mommy was taking pictures of someone outside in the backyard and wouldn’t take one of me. She had one shot left on the roll of film when she finished and allowed me to pose. Did she save me the last one? Was it by chance? All of that is irrelevant because I loved the photo in my sundress, arms up and out (which seems to be my favorite pose, even now).

Above: Some of my favorite photo bombs – back when you didn’t know what you had for weeks while you waited for your film to be developed. My height worked against me but I still tried to get in there.

Below: I managed to dry those tears real quick, throw my hands in the air and work the camera.

Mommy’s insistence that I smile a certain way and pose a certain way grew old. School photos became a source of mild anxiety. If my hair was not the same as it was when I left the house that morning she didn’t understand why my teachers didn’t fix it. If I didn’t smile quite right she didn’t understand why I made that face. If flaws were shown – snaggle teeth or squinty eyes – she told me what I needed to do to correct or hide them. It sounds horrible, and it felt that way, but I do understand fully what she was trying to do. You had one shot to get a beautiful picture when using film and she believed I was beautiful. She just wanted the camera to capture what she saw.

Then as I gained weight and became a fat woman, I hated documenting that in pictures. And when I lost weight I still saw that fat woman in photographs and that was usually the end of whatever diet I was trying because why work hard if I couldn’t achieve what I wanted. And today I hate to wear makeup having struggled with acne since I’m 9, contact lenses mostly because pollen and an astigmatism, and anything other than destructed denim and graphic tees for comfort. I wear sneakers everyday and fight to cover my fast-growing gray hair that cruelly started along my hairline, impossible to disguise. I don’t like taking pictures, but I take them for one reason only – family memories. Mommy reached a point in life where she hated having her picture taken, too, and we regret not having enough photos of her to show people documentation of our memories. I know that photos are your source of remembering life events and that it’s important to have them no matter what you look like at the time.

After seeing this photo, I was literally disgusted at the sight of myself. But I didn’t demand a re-take because we were making travel memories (a family member is the blurred and deleted image beside me). And no re-takes were going to make me look smaller. And I was already convinced I could never look better.

I hope to stop avoiding the camera during this phase of peeling back the layers to expose my true self. I hope that I can ignore whatever I consider flawed and begin to embrace the things that are the charm of me. And I hope that I can look back on photos and remember the joy of celebrations, the enlightenment of travels, and the love among loved ones and close ones. For now, the way that I am working on that is by posting as many photographs as I can find and take of myself (click here for the gallery updated often) while I talk about who I truly am as a whole person. It won’t be me in every post but I’ll make a significant appearance.