My granddaddy was a Baptist preacher. Daddy was a Baptist preacher. And on that side of the family I have uncles and cousins who are preachers and deacons. It is because of that legacy I choose to be a Baptist Christian.
My Indian/Native American/Indigenous roots show up in common identifying features of my Walker tribe. We as a family talked about what characteristics we got from our Cherokee ancestors that was passed down to my full-blooded great-grandmother, the last full-blooded ancestor in my paternal line more than any other influence in our ancestry. When I was born, a white man who Daddy knew was quoted as saying that I looked just like a little Indian – supposedly he couldn’t identify me out of the babies because he was looking for a Black baby and not a little Indian who later sneezed on him, like a little Indian. And when I wore a particular hairstyle in high school someone crudely stated that all I was missing was a peace-pipe. I’m a Xennial so there are some allowances made for the best of intentions despite the inappropriate language. It is because of that legacy I choose to integrate rituals that are commonly associated with those of Indians/Native Americans/Indigenous Peoples into the rituals that are recognized by Baptist Christians.
My European roots were seldom spoken of, however cannot be denied in my blood memory. In fact, I only heard one family member ever mention a sole white man in my ancestry, and only one time in my life. But my research leads me to assume that I have a legacy that includes roots in Catholicism, and it is because of this legacy that I am sure to include rituals that are more specific to Catholicism than Baptist Christianity in my sacred time.
My great-grandfather was an active member of the United Methodist Church teaching, serving as an usher, and serving as an elected lay member. And this is the legacy my mother and siblings were born into. It is because of this legacy that I have reintroduced one particular ritual into my Baptist Christian sacred time.
My Mothers originated from the Cameroonian People. This was never discussed in any measure that I can find or ever heard in family stories. But my blood tells me this is true, and it is because of this legacy I include rituals that are characterized by the West African religions into my Baptist Christian sacred time.
The day I was presented to Earth, I was born of a mother of United Methodist heritage and a father of mixed Baptist-COGIC heritage. I was a critical factor in my parents’ marrying and their marriage was the critical factor that influenced my Baptist Christianity.
Just as society generalizes me a born US Citizen/Black American/African-American (with no Hispanic origin), I generalize myself as Baptist Christian. Despite society not making adequate room for my Indian/Native American/Indigenous People roots nor my European roots – I can’t accurately select any other ethnicity, race, or color on any legal forms – I fully embrace being a typical “slavery baby” and acknowledge my African, European, and Indigenous roots in everyday life and with my blood family (those consequences of my ancestors’ choices). And despite my wearing the simplified label of Baptist Christian, I incorporate rituals typically associated with other religions into my personal religious rites and rituals.
My disillusion with “the church” has led me to a place that is much less structured yet feels much closer to pure in my spirituality, religious beliefs, and sacred spaces and times. Evangelism is not my spiritual gift but Teaching is, and with that knowledge I am better able to rest in this non-structured place even when it results in isolation, loneliness, and sometimes confusion. To teach you must first learn and you learn by research and experience – which can sometimes mean laying down what you already know as true to test something that seems contradictory. If you want to become a Baptist Christian, I will gladly educate you on a few important tenets, and then pass you along to someone who will be responsible with your journey, but I’m not anybody’s recruiter. I’m not likely to ever tell you that any path other than being a Baptist Christian is the right path for me. But I’m not likely to ever tell you that being a Baptist Christian is the only way that’s right for you except in agreement.
And I know eventually I will find my place in a family of Baptist Christians who will embrace me wholly regardless of what they think of me – for better or worse – and I will live with more structure in my spirituality, religious beliefs, and sacred spaces and times. It goes without saying that they will embrace my participation in all things associated specifically with Baptist Christianity, but they’ll also embrace my participation in all things sacred, regardless of its label or its roots without condemning me according to Baptist Christian exclusionary guidelines.
They’ll embrace my cleansing rituals that include smudging with sage, perfuming with incense, purifying with Holy Water, sanctifying with Blessed Oil, and praying with beads. They’ll embrace my use of various beads and prayer ropes with my sacred rituals. It will be okay that I have a sacred space at home that includes beads, candles, very specific colors and fragrances, dream catchers, and pictures of my ancestors. It will be okay that this is where I pray and sing and read and study at home. They’ll do this without condemning me.
They’ll embrace the way I recognize and keep the Lenten Season rituals and make that time of fasting very specific to my needs each year. They’ll embrace my choice to occasionally forsake corporate worship inside a man-made sacred place for an intimate solo worship ritual in creation with beads wrapped around my wrist. It will be okay for me to worship at the shores of moving water, washing my feet as I pray silently for forgiveness. It will be okay that I then release my petitions written on paper that will dissolve into that same body of water where I washed my feet, and then rest for a time while admiring all of creation. They’ll do this without condemning me.
I am Regina Lynette. I am more than a Baptist Christian.
I was born a Missionary Baptist Christian. Okay, not exactly. That technically goes against the teaching of the Missionary Baptist Church – if you believe the way to salvation and fellowship is by confession of Jesus as Lord and Savior and water (immersion) baptism. Or should I say I was born a Missionary Baptist Parishioner? Confession and baptism was a requirement for membership now that I think about it so that still isn’t quite accurate. At any rate, the reason I feel like I was born a Missionary Baptist Christian is because that was the church family that raised me and it is the legacy of my paternal family. I was about three years old when my parents joined the church that would become my childhood home church. Because I don’t want to name the churches I’ll be talking about, I’m going to use acronyms so you can keep it straight. So my “childhood home church” will be referred to as NNMBC, and if you were a character in this part of my life you’ll also know what my system is but, oh well. I attended, was nourished by, and belonged to NNMBC from about three to 17 and a half. I remember this so specifically because it was not my choice to leave that church. I literally went out of town for a summer as a member of that church and came back and was handed a card stating that I was a charter member of another church. The last year I physically lived in Memphis, the last year of my grade school education, was spent at a new church, the NBMBC. The other reason this is stamped indelibly on my brain is that I was so looking forward to being recognized as a high school graduate and receiving a leather-bound Bible with my name engraved in gold lettering on the cover from NNMBC. Thankfully, it also meant something to the right people and I was invited to the celebration despite my change in membership, and I received a Bible that I cherish and still own.
Daddy was my religious leader until his death and in some ways after his death. No, he wasn’t ever officially my Pastor, but he was the only person I trusted with my religious questions. I was born into a legacy of Baptist preachers and deacons (and ushers and choir members). I don’t know everything I would like to know about Daddy’s spiritual journey, but I know his father was a Baptist preacher and that he later became a Baptist preacher. I know that for a time Daddy was affiliated with the Church of God In Christ and that he returned to the Missionary Baptist Church before I was born. Daddy was relatively tolerant of most Christian denominations in very general terms but took the adage “as for me and my house” very seriously as head of household so we were all Missionary Baptist Christians in his house. This legacy and childhood environment is why I say that I was born a Missionary Baptist Christian. The reason I even mention being born a Missionary Baptist Christian so specifically is that I, true to my Wandering Spirit, sort of wandered off in other directions over the course of my spiritual journey but found myself back in the Missionary Baptist Church, then by choice.
Look at those long legs – no wonder everyone thought I would be tall. They just didn’t know I got all the leg I was going to have at about that age.
Mommy and her family had a less strict and less specific religious legacy. I don’t believe her mother nor her aunt – the primary women who raised her – were affiliated with any religion in particular as adults because they didn’t go to church (at least during the years I knew of them). However, her maternal grandfather was a part of the United Methodist Church as was she and my siblings, for roughly ten years that I can confirm. When Daddy joined NNMBC, Mommy and my teenaged siblings had to be water-baptized (full immersion) to join the church because through the United Methodist Church they had been “sprinkled”. Joining NNMBC required confession (Jesus is God’s only begotten son, our Lord and Savior), water baptism (full immersion), and communion (along with the right hand of fellowship).
As far back as I can remember, Daddy talked to me about Jesus and God in such a way that I felt they could have been distant family members just as my maternal family was – I was a tween before I met any of my mother’s family. Daddy took my confession at a super young age at home and then began explaining to me the formal rituals that needed to take place. The first problem I told my parents I had with this formal process was walking to the front of the church while the “doors of the church were open”, meaning the time of service just after the sermon when the invitation to come to the front and make your confession was extended. I was painfully and awkwardly shy in any public setting and telling an entire sanctuary of folks what I believed and that I wanted to be baptized was crippling. I thought maybe Daddy could just pass the message on for me. The second problem I told them – because they never accepted my shyness as a barrier to this or anything – was my fear of being completely submerged in water. They tried a few things at home to try and get me over it but when they saw the level of my fear of the water, Mommy persuaded me that swim lessons would be a fun activity. Unfortunately, they didn’t “take” and I still can’t swim, however, I learned to be okay with my head under water and that was enough for a baptism in my parents’ book. They were certain that I understood my confession, had a strong desire to be a Christian and be assured of salvation (going to heaven after death), and that it was time for me to push past the fears that held me back.
This is Gina on her way to church. My friends would later say I looked like Sophia Petrillo (Golden Girls), in my suit skirt almost under my arm pits, holding on to my white pocket book.
When I was eight years old Mommy and Daddy chose a Sunday that I was going to make my confession and then be baptized, and announced to me that this was happening. I was terrified but I knew there was no other way around it. Mommy had invited a couple of friends to come and be there when I made my confession and for the baptism that would take place the following Sunday. Fear would not be tolerated with people watching. I was sick to my stomach the entire service thinking about walking to the front of the church with everyone watching me and having to speak in the microphone. Mommy and Daddy had practiced the questions with me – this was a ritual after all – to be sure I answered correctly. I walked to the front of the church, forcing my head up high because Mommy told me not to do the thing where I walked with my head down so low that my back was hunched over. As I neared the altar headed toward that red upholstered chair I would have to sit on, I could hear mumblings of people who were moved – one way or another – by what it meant that I was participating in this sacred ritual. I was beginning to feel better because it was almost over. After answering the questions loudly into the microphone as Mommy instructed me – because I can be a serious low-talker, almost whispering – it was announced that I would be baptized the following Sunday, and the congregation celebrated while I all but ran back to my mother. All of the ladies – Mommy, her guests, and my godmother were teary-eyed.
I made one request for my support system for the full-immersion water baptism – that Daddy be the one who baptized me. I needed Daddy because of how I trusted him with my life. Only Daddy would be the one I trusted not to let me drown – even though I had never seen or heard of anyone drowning in the baptismal pool. I actually loved baptism Sundays because the red curtain that kept it hidden was wide open and I loved the artwork featuring White-Jesus on the back wall. It seemed to light up the entire sanctuary for me and I was always so happy about the people being baptized and securing there places in the Christian family and in heaven.
This is Little Miss Walker, so named by the members of NNMBC. I absolutely loved this dress.
The Sunday I was baptized there were 22 candidates for baptism. This was an insane number of children and adults being baptized at once and the result of a week-long revival where the invitation for salvation was extended every night. I wore a swimsuit and swim cap under my white robe and white cap that was the “dipping uniform”, and I was second in line to be baptized. This was the first time I remembered ever seeing three men in the pool – because of the number of candidates for baptism they would alternate dips. The other very important person involved in my baptism didn’t have to be asked to participate, but announced that she would be there behind the scenes with me before I was dipped. There in the back, keeping order and directing the candidates for baptism was my godmother, Lucy Bell. She touched my shoulders, adjusted my caps, and reassured me several times while we waited for the ceremony to start. I can still feel her hands on me and smell her. I asked her to make sure the men got it right – that Daddy knew when to step up for me – and I rested assured that she would make everything alright. When it was my turn she took me up the stairs toward the pool and held on to me as I stepped down into the water until Daddy took my hand. He said those words, after some scriptural preamble that served as a countdown to me – “Now, I baptize you my sister, in the name of the Father (3), in the name of the Son (2), and in the name of the Holy Spirit. (1)” And I was taken down under the water, unable to resist Daddy’s strength even though my reflex was resistance, and popped back up with my nose burning from the water. I was rushed off into the arms of another familiar usher, one who was teary-eyed and who gave me some instruction on where to go and find my mother who’d stayed in the sanctuary to witness my baptismal and then rushed behind the scenes to dry me and change my wet clothes. True to myself, I didn’t get the instruction quite right and was found in the wrong place freezing and dripping on the floor where my Sunday school class was taught. Mommy, also teary-eyed, commented on how the swim cap didn’t protect my ring curls quite enough and then sent me back to the sanctuary where I sat near the Mother Board. They made me feel safe and I recall feeling incredibly grateful to officially be a member of NNMBC, to finally have secured my entry to heaven after death, and to have become a part of the whole Christian family. And finally I would be allowed to have communion.
I describe my baptism here in painful details to demonstrate a few important points. I want to impress upon you the level of my devotion and belief in Christianity at a young age. I was very serious about this thing and very well supported by my parents. I want to share the fear that threatened to hold me back and the levels that my parents went through to help me push past it. And I want to explain why I disagree with the people who believe that only an adult can make a decision to accept Christ in their hearts. I know that it is very possible for a young child to accept Christianity with even more clarity than some adults. And even though I won’t change the mind of someone with that belief, I know I don’t need to have an adult do-over baptism because mine was not for my parents, but for myself.
Here I am, sat atop the television console as if I am a decorative item, to pose for a Sunday morning photo.
Even though there are already a ton of words on the page, I have more to say. Should I make this a two-parter? Maybe.
I am Regina Lynette. I am a Baptist Christian. Maybe.
Is melodrama hereditary? I know that most likely it’s learned behavior, but I feel like I inherited mine. It wasn’t one of my mother’s most prevalent characteristics, but it was always there. In most dramatic fashion, she ripped a nightgown off in the middle of the living room after I projectile vomited as an infant all over her and no one was helping her (she told me this story herself). When working extra jobs to get her beau a special collection of books for Christmas, he accused her of neglecting her children by leaving them home alone for several hours late in the evenings. She threw each one of those books at him while explaining what she was doing. I really don’t want to tell you that it was my daddy – but it was. A sibling told me this story that happened before I was born. Those are just two of my favorite recollections of melodramatic Mommy.
When my melodramatic self shows up to the party, I fully embrace her. I can remember falling on the floor in swoon-worthy fashion when hearing something that pushed me to my limits – annoyances or shocking statements. I took preliminary results of my first mammogram (“we see something on the mammogram that we want to look at more closely”) and ran the entire gamut of having breast cancer and requiring surgery and which fundraising marches I would participate. Just a few weeks later – and several months of monitoring – the true results were I have a benign cyst that doesn’t even need to be removed. I can tell an inflated recounting of a situation that impresses myself, and sometimes I have to let witnesses know that I am reveling in my most melodramatic self when they begin to wonder if I was even present in the same event. I’ve thrown some things in anger – fortunately not at anyone – and I’ve slammed a landline phone down seven times after an irritating conversation. And honestly, I’m very pleased with my melodramatic self. I find her completely entertaining.
I am Regina Lynette. I love myself when I’m being the most. Like when I wear all the colors, and dye my hair purple, and wear purple nails, and wear all my rings at the same time, and wear a graphic tee with an identity statement, and choose green because it enhances creativity, and stand beside a giant mural of a mason jar of sweet tea.
Even though I have moments where I am being the most and truly loving the fact that I am being the most, I have moments on the complete opposite side of the spectrum. And the moments where I believe I am not enough or the moments where I intentionally try to be less might also be hereditary or maybe learned behaviors. Both of my parents had certain insecurities, but I spent much more time talking to my father about the moments where he was a victim of believing he was not enough. For my father his insecurities stemmed from a good desire to better himself. Unfortunately, he was embarrassed about his lack of formal education and some elements of his upbringing. When people made assumptions like his attending seminary and having a post-graduate degree, he would shrink in silence – never misleading anyone but seldom if ever correcting them. He lived with a level of embarrassment from only completing the 7th grade. In his 60s he went to night school and got his GED, increasing his impression of his self-worth, but he still struggled with the fact that he was self-educated enough to appear more on the outside while believing he was less on the inside. This story about his education was something I was particularly proud of – I mean what he achieved in self-education in the absence of formal education, but I kept his secret until after he died.
My lesser self withdraws and hides in hopes that I won’t attract the attention of anyone or encourage any kind of interactions that would expose the ways I believe I’m not enough. I don’t believe I am as beautiful as other women in my family, so I purposely avoid dressing up and making up and other primping believing there is not enough in all the world to make me shine as brightly as they. And if I get a compliment, I believe it’s just a courtesy and insincere. I shrink whenever someone boasts that I know a lot about a subject or have great interest in something – I don’t want anyone to be disappointed at any level of ignorance I have about a particular subject. I’ve been so quiet and still in a room that once a person actually turned out the lights on me after checking that the room was empty – they quite literally did not see me sitting in the middle of the room. It’s like I have an invisibility cloak like a superhero except I only use it to avoid interactions with other people. While I consider this trait a negative, I still value it almost as much as my most melodramatic self. What I like about it is I can observe human behavior in a way to see intentions without being noticed and subsequently I can detect ill intentions or ingenuine people without being swayed by their tactics.
I am Regina Lynette. I love myself even when I think I’m not quite enough – when I keep my hair tied down so it doesn’t move, and I wear a cover-up with a full shorts ensemble underneath instead of daring to wear a swimsuit, and I wear sunglasses so dark you can’t see my eyes, and I sit on the back of a boat in silence while everyone else swims, and I decline any refreshment because I don’t want to demonstrate a need for anything.
Of course, the best of me can be found somewhere in the middle. My balanced melodramatic self is hilarious with impeccable comedic timing – a deadpan humor or a retelling of a story that will keep you entertained at worst and in stitches at best – and makes heavy life situations lighter and easier to maneuver. My balanced lesser self is humble and creates a very calm, safe space where a person can be vulnerable and find peace. And I love my most balanced self just as much as the extremes.
I am Regina Lynette. I love myself when I’m being the most. And then again when I’m not enough.
“I love myself when I am laughing. . . and then again when I am looking mean and impressive.”
When I open my eyes on March 23, 2024, I will have officially outlived my mother. I’ve been thinking a lot about my mothers lately and because I only had one of them in my life, and even then for only the first 13 years of it, I feel tremendous loss. But it is in my blood memory to recognize and acknowledge my ancestors so I have created a sacred space at home where I honor my ancestral mothers. This isn’t a foreign concept for me but this is the first time I am intentionally seeking out my ancestors. I’ve sensed uncles, aunties, my paternal grandmother, and my parents with me in the past – riding in my car, sending lady bugs my way, or while shopping and running errands – and have welcomed their presence. But I never invited them in the way I am inviting my mothers now.
My mothers never lived to become old women – none of them even made it beyond their 60th birthdays. And because my mother died so young, 47 years and 101 days, I always expected that my siblings and I would each have a crisis of sorts about reaching and surpassing her age in our own lives. I watched my siblings approach and surpass the number of years my mother lived and they seemed to have opposite approaches – one seemed to expect death and the other seemed to fight death. And now it’s my turn.
After I reached an age where my dreams seemed impossible, I began thinking much more often about my own mortality and thinking about the possibility of surpassing the number of years my mother lived. I could honestly say that I didn’t want to outlive my mother. I don’t mean that I was suicidal, but that I didn’t want to live. I didn’t have a life I enjoyed and didn’t have children to live for or a legacy to create or fulfill. So what was the point of living? No one depends on my life for anything so if I didn’t enjoy it and there was no obligation to live for anything else, what was the point?
Vacationing in Toledo, Spain during a time where my life dreams seem no longer possible.
Because my mother died from a silent killer, I thought I was being responsible by going to the doctor for all my age-related preventative annual testing. As a result, I’ve been poked and prodded and threatened with numerous illnesses. And supplements have been recommended. And medications prescribed. And as a result of increased focus on preventing hereditary diseases, more small things have been found that need investigating and watching. Several routine visits have resulted in months of ultrasounds, MRIs, C-Scans, and preventative testing in increased frequencies. And it sounds reckless and selfish but I am tired. I don’t want to have a 3-D mammogram and an ultrasound and an MRI every year. Why does that sound reckless and selfish? Because I am in a position where it is both recommended and covered by insurance to have a 3-D mammogram and an ultrasound and an MRI every year to catch breast cancer as early as possible to be able to treat it as early as possible and prevent invasive life saving measures and death. I imagine that every person who has been touched by breast cancer is cringing now. Forgive me. I have to remind myself of the good. I have to forget having my boobs treated like breast cutlets and then having those results compared to an ultrasound and then having those results compared to being on a seat on my knees in the fetal position with each boob hanging down in a cold metal square sitting in a machine that knocks and beeps for half an hour and then having a dye injected and doing it again for half an hour. And while all that is better than chemo and radiation and mastectomy and a painful slow death, all it does is make me think about cancer. And I feel the same way about all the other preventative tests I have to go through annually. After just 2 years of that, I became obsessed with death and believed I was at risk and in bad health.
The next thing to happen as a result of all the things that have showed up on these tests is that with further testing of something suspicious, I have been proven to be in relatively good health. So I got over myself. Even things I shouldn’t be able do to well because of the diagnoses I live with, I do better than I did when I was younger and supposedly in better health. I listened, finally, to the message I was receiving. It’s not too late. And because it’s not too late, I have decided to embrace the belief that I will surpass the number of years my mother lived. And I’ve set some goals to achieve by March 23, 2024. And I am planning a celebration for March 23, 2024. If you are invited, the only acceptable response is “yes”.
The end-of-year holidays always drove me into a frenzy as a child that my teachers, siblings, and parents all overlooked, and I am grateful they did. It was a frenzy, but it was joy filled. My siblings who lived at home with me had been away at college, returning for Thanksgiving break. Nearly every conversation in the house started with “When the kids get home…” Even I called them “The Kids” despite their being old enough (biologically) to be my parents. I found joy in every little thing – the drafty house causing the windows to fog and condensation to run was one of the most ridiculous things to find joyful but was one of the happiest additions to the ambiance.
Even though Thanksgiving itself wasn’t particularly my favorite holiday, I enjoyed certain aspects and it was always a good time overall. My siblings coming home was the best part, the marshmallows on that nasty sweet potato thing Mommy made was second, and the mac-n-cheese was third. Outside of that I loved watching Mommy set out her mismatched China and fragile water glasses that she found at a yard sale and I loved how she enjoyed decorating her table and getting us to dress up for dinner. I love seeing those plates and glasses today for that same reason. Mommy’s dressing was pretty tasty as well and generally my soft-drink restriction was relaxed for the Thanksgiving meal.
But Thanksgiving was far too short for me and mostly just served as a defining line for when Christmas, the pinnacle of the year, could start. In between Thanksgiving and Christmas is my birthday, so it would be just a few days after Thanksgiving when I started writing a countdown to my birthday whenever I had to write the date. You know, I’d write my name and December 1st on my paper and then add “eleven days until my birthday”. I wasn’t exactly making an announcement, but my glee was just oozing out through my hand to my pencil and onto the paper. My teachers sometimes commented, and it seemed they understood the level of excitement demonstrated by that simple act. I can recall that at the height of reaching my birthday, I often sat on top of my desk – if I sat at all – and for whatever reason, my teachers had patience with me. The threshold for consequences was lowered for me universally during that time. Finally, about a week later we’d go on Christmas break and “The Kids” would be coming home soon again.
Christmas was always my favorite holiday, and being the only young kid in my household, Christmas was all about me, myself, and I. We went through the basic rules of magic – Santa only came if I was good and at night when I went to sleep – and I would wake up to a glorious toy-filled room at which I was front and center.
One year Daddy was going to have to work on Christmas morning, so this once Mommy decided we’d exchange gifts early on Christmas Eve at 2PM in the afternoon. It was the only time in my entire life that opening presents early was allowed. That Christmas Eve I was entirely out of control from the moment I opened my eyes until the moment we started opening presents. I had developed a special kind of impatience just for the occasion and thankfully I had a significantly lower threshold for when inappropriate behavior was punished. At some point in the day when I reached a particularly unattractive level of unreasonableness, Mommy suggested that I pass the time by cleaning out a toybox. Who the heck wants to clean? Even as a distraction I thought she was really stretching it. But then she insisted that I find a few specific toys and play with them. It was a step up from cleaning, but I wasn’t exactly thrilled playing with old toys when shiny new ones were under the tree waiting on me to open them. But I did it because even though that discipline threshold was low, it was not inexistent, and Mommy was not one to be played with – I truly believed everything under that tree might be taken away if she deemed necessary.
While I was playing with those old toys, 2PM made its way around and we opened presents. I felt a little ashamed by my behavior by the time we opened the gifts. Why was I losing my mind when I knew exactly the time of day I’d be in that bliss? And we were opening gifts a whole day earlier than usual so why was I lamenting the wait? And when I opened the biggest gift, it had everything to do with those toys she made me find and play with. And I was a little more embarrassed. And for some reason – I guess the moments of introspection, that year was the first time I really noticed how the adults exchanged presents and that they were excited by their big gifts, too. There was a world outside of mine on Christmas and it looked pretty nice. I was further embarrassed by my behavior, and I looked out the window into the backyard to let my thoughts wash over me (staring out of windows was something I learned to do because Mommy did it whenever she was thinking). And while I was thinking, it started snowing! Yes, it was Memphis so snowing meant some little flurries that never even stuck were floating around the air, but it was technically snowing. And since we were doing Christmas at that moment, I declared it my first ever White Christmas. And I grew up just a little bit that year. It would be an extremely slow growth, but it started that Christmas.
I don’t remember the toys in question or the gifts I received that Christmas. I remember that I saw myself as selfish and impatient and rude and decided I wanted to be more generous, more patient, and kinder. And I could see that not only did Mommy plan out every detail for a great and magical Christmas, but she had taken into account that I was going to be a restless spoiled brat up until the moments I got everything I wanted.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 am Regina Lynette 