Tag: imperfectly

5 Min Read, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Family, Parenting, Re-parenting, Robert Samuel Walker, Spirituality, The Mothers

I am Regina Lynette. I am more than a Baptist Christian.

Regina Lynette

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.

10 Min Read, Family, Spirituality

I am Regina Lynette. I am a Baptist Christian. By Choice.

Regina Lynette

I was born into a legacy of Baptist preachers and deacons. My religious beliefs come from that legacy and were of significant importance to me from my earliest memories. The first three churches in my life both caused me to experience painful spiritual wounds and caused me to experience immense spiritual growth. They all broke my heart in one way or another – I am not sure how much detail I want to share about everything that I experienced just yet – but this doesn’t discount the fact that what I experienced in those churches has left me in a more mature place spiritually. I suppose it’s sufficient to say that some of the things that happened were entirely the fault of others and not always because of good intentions, and other things that happened were unfortunate but exposed some things I wanted to change about myself that ranged from making sure I didn’t do the things they did to making sure I didn’t react to those things the way I did.

Barcelona, Spain

After I sort of walked away from the church – the building and corporate fellowship, not my Christianity – I tried to find the ideal church and had a number of experiences similar to a series of bad first dates. Immediately after college graduation I attended the same church as my family – we’ll call it NBFGB – and despite the “prophecy” (one of the lies declared over my life) that I was going to be ministering in the pulpit of that church for the whole world to see, I regarded it as a temporary stop until I found the church that was perfect for me. There were a series of quick changes involving that church that made it an extremely poor fit for me and I sought out my own church apart from that of my family’s. The season of Rebel Gina was in full effect by then and I entered each church on my list ready for war. I wanted to elicit reactions from the congregants and leadership to determine if I wanted to be in that particular flock of Christians. I intentionally wore jeans and sneakers, sometimes a t-shirt, and looked everyone in the eye for any reaction of my attire. When that didn’t work – no one even batted an eye – I stopped carrying a Bible to church thinking that the black canvas covered study Bible could give me a sort of status that might give people hope that I was a “seasoned Christian”. I wanted to look like I had just basically wandered inside off the street and dared people to react. I looked at each person who made a move and dropped them in categories, stereotyping them, and identifying their similarities to other Christians I’d met. And I examined the pastor with the scrutiny of a microscope and judged their entire ministry – their entire lives – based on whatever I found striking. One was shorter than me and preached in a muscle shirt and I decided I would never want to interact with any man who would be under his leadership. One described a time he called his daddy to rescue him from the side of the road because he had a flat tire and had just gotten a manicure, and I left his church immediately after he made that statement never to return again. And one was so intelligent – and not at all pretentious – that I really tried to make the church fit and never joined despite returning several times. When I noticed everything that was going on, that I was behaving like a woman with a broken heart accusing all men of being worthless just because of my bad relationship, I intentionally stopped searching for a church for what I thought was going to be about 3 months and managed to last years. I wanted to take a moment to understand what I was looking for in a church and to release the anger I was carrying for people who I had put on a pedestal that they didn’t deserve.

Ibiza, Spain

While discussing churches with a relative, she shared with me that she was becoming disillusioned with the Missionary Baptist church in general. I entertained the conversation because I’d also thought that changing denominations might be the way to finding the right church home. I’ve considered the United Methodist Church, non-denominational churches, the Full Gospel Baptist church, and other Christian churches and I even though I don’t believe the denomination is that critical in my particular search, I made the conscious choice to stay with the Missionary Baptist Church that was my first love.

Even though what I thought would be about 3 months turned into years, I still had spurts of looking for churches intermittently with a new set of criteria that I expected would make for a better fit. I still haven’t found a church home and most recently I’ve had episodes that allude to a much more significant problem than I can squarely blame on any one thing or any one person involved in my spiritual journey.

Grenada, Spain

Not too long ago I got ready to attend a series of churches in my new hometown. As I was about to leave the house, I had a full-on panic attack. I didn’t leave for that church and when I abandoned the list of churches, I felt completely relieved. I had never experienced that level of anxiety over going to church (except for funerals) and tried to explore it further to see what kind of help I needed. When the desire to find a church returned a few years later, I managed to leave the house with the help of my niece but as soon as we parked the car my fingers went numb. I managed to attend the service with my niece at my side and had enough positive experiences that I considered returning, though I never did. The numb fingers episode scared me. And a couple years after that COVID, which is an entirely different series of anxieties and stories to share later.

The need for a spiritual connection without having a church family led me to creating rituals that were meaningful to me independent of the religion they were associated with or if they were even associated with a religion. I spend a lot of time in nature performing various rituals as they feel true and appropriate for the time. I take 3 hour retreats of silence at the beach. I write prayers or burdens on paper that dissolves in water and release them into the gulf. I allow the water to wash my bare feet as a symbol of asking forgiveness. I watch the sun set and admire the glorious reds, oranges, and yellows that turn into pinks, blues, and purples and am in awe of creation. I never walk past the color purple in landscaping or fields without pausing and taking notice. I stop to smell magnolia blooms. I acknowledge the seeds of great potential when I see acorns. And I am very careful to acknowledge the beauty of creation while worshipping the creator. While this doesn’t meet the need of having a shepherd, ministering to others, or joining in the fellowship, it allows me to celebrate the thing that keeps me forever tethered to God, Jesus, my Christianity – more specifically my Baptist Christianity.

I haven’t given up yet and I hope to find a church where I feel welcome, where I belong, where I am fed, and where I can minister. And I guess once I find it I’ll be writing a part four.

I am Regina Lynette. I am a Baptist Christian. By Choice.

Ibiza, Spain
3 Min Read, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Family, Mental Health, Parenting, Robert Samuel Walker

I love myself when I’m being the most. And then again when I’m not enough.

Regina Lynette

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.”

— Zora Neale Hurston
3 Min Read, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, Family, Mental Health, My Body, The Mothers

March 23, 2024.

Regina Lynette

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”.

5 Min Read, Mental Health, Parenting, Re-parenting

A letter to 11-year-old me

Regina Lynette

I wrote a letter to my 11-year-old self a couple of years ago and I was surprised at how I handled it. It turned out to be a wonderful personal exercise and I truly wish 11-year-old me could receive and read it. I feel like I might have embraced my true self much earlier if I knew that no matter what I did, everything would still be okay eventually. But I might not be on this whole “identity” project right now so, I dunno, bittersweet and mixed feelings.

Dearest Gina,

Happy Birthday! You are eleven this year and at 42 years old, I wanted to write to you about some things to come. First of all, it’s time to accept one important fact – you are different. You are different from your neighbor friends, your school friends, and your community friends. And it’s okay. In fact, it’s good. The faster you accept it the faster you can embrace everything that comes with it and the easier it is to enjoy life. The second thing to know is that this is a significant year. This is the year your life purpose will be revealed. And lastly, things unfold rather slowly for you so know and remind yourself that this is okay.

You are different.

This is an important year.

Life unfolds slowly for you.

I want to tell you the secrets and all the answers to your questions but that’s not best. You have to learn and experience your life as it comes. But one of the things I can’t share with you in detail is coming soon and will be challenging. Your life is going to shift, and it will reinforce the first important thing I mentioned – you are different. The best way to manage the next seven years – which are going to be challenging – is to remember and understand that all things may not be good; all things won’t be bad; but all things work together for good.

That brings me to the significance of this year – your purpose will be revealed to you this year. And this is also why your life begins to shift. You’ll reject it and doubt it and that’s exactly what you’re supposed to do. You’ll wrestle with it as you should. Here’s my advice – live your life in a pattern of intense awareness of self and surroundings alternating with times of mindless wandering and meandering. The moment something significant happens – something that provokes strong emotions which usually include fear or anger or sadness – remind yourself that everything that happens this year is to shift your life towards your purpose and calling. It’s all supposed to happen this way and if you change your perspective, you can feel better sooner. Don’t worry about trying to understand it. Just remember it has to happen exactly as it does – your life is unfolding exactly as it should in the most perfect way.

Now, that brings me to the perfect and slow unfolding of your life. Remind yourself that patience is key. Exercising patience will get you through every year of your life going forward. Go ahead and dream and plan and pursue goals and dreams but try to go easy on the timeline. Unfortunately, we don’t get to find out the actual timing of our lives. But don’t lose heart. If you didn’t imagine the right date, either accept that things happened earlier than expected and roll with it, or if it didn’t happen when you thought it should have, set another date in the future and keep moving forward. Just because you didn’t get the date right doesn’t mean you got the dream wrong. Remember that whatever desire has been placed in your heart is a part of the overall plan.

But no letter from your future self should exclude all specifics. What’s the purpose of reaching out to you if all I have to offer is the larger life lessons I’ve learned? Here are a few tips to make life a wee bit sweeter. You have the power to choose in these circumstances but consider my words when making your choices.

You probably already know that a new school is coming, and Mommy wants you there. Your fifth-grade teacher already knows you need to be there so follow her guidance. Your sixth-grade teacher is a real bully. If you’re going to take a stand with her, bring Mommy into the plan early. She’s going to push you to react, and Mommy needs to understand that you simply cannot tolerate a bully. When foreign language classes come around take French, not Spanish. The Spanish teacher is easier and more laid back, true, but the French teacher isn’t nearly as bad as she seems and it’s French that you need. Mommy’s plan for us has an end point in college. It’s perfect because it takes you up to the point where you’ll have another significant life shift so roll with it but start to imagine your own ideas of life after college.

You’ll have a series of life path changes that will place your choices in two categories – one that’s not ideal but will keep you close to friends and family; and one that is new and appealing but leaves behind some people. Never make that choice based on who will be beside you. There are a lot of people who are in your life for a season so let them go when the time comes. The people who are there for a lifetime will show up along either path. Oh, and you know that boy that everyone treats cruelly? The one who even the adults mistreat? Take your compassion for him a step further and actually treat him with kindness. And be open to friendship – he grows up to be very smart, handsome, and kind, but don’t do it for that reason. Do it because he’s a great guy to have in your life. He’s a seasonal character but it’s a good season.

Your dating life will be very different from your friends’ and family’s. First, you will find yourself more attracted to brains than brawn and almost never will be in competition with any of your friends for the same kind of guy. The first brain that catches your eye will be in your heart for years, but he is only in your life for a season. Learn from that relationship and let it go. The second brain that catches your eye will teach you the kinds of lessons that no one is able to explain about love and relationships. But be careful with his heart. He cares for you more than he shows you – maybe even more than he believes he does at the time so be gentle with him. The third brain who catches your eye will test all the lessons you learned about love and relationships. I want to tell you not to force the relationship, but he does really reinforce your understanding of self-respect so it’s up to you. Just gird your loins because a relationship with him is a real roller-coaster in a wind storm.

As far as that secret you’ve been keeping from the time you can remember, it will stop eventually. But understand that no one has a right to touch you. You are not sending secret messages through your eyes that you are not in control of so don’t be confused by what they say – you are being blamed for someone’s lack of control. And it is their responsibility to remain in control of their actions and they have a choice to make, so the consequences are theirs and not yours. Be horrified if you’re touched and be livid if you’re told you got what you wanted. Make a lot of noise of any kind. I know it took courage to tell that teacher what happened and I’m sorry she blamed you because it takes a child a lot of years to understand that adults can be wrong. If the schoolteachers don’t listen, go to the vice-principal, principal, guidance counselor, Mommy and Daddy, and if no one listens, go to the police. You won’t get justice so you can choose to be quiet until adulthood if you prefer and as I said it will eventually be okay. But if you are loud now, someone will be forced to listen to you. Don’t be afraid of getting into any kind of trouble with any means you choose to stop people from putting their hands on you. I only want you to know that telling and getting help is a viable choice and that I don’t want you to stop until you get what you need – the sooner the better.

Lastly, I want you to start writing in your journal daily or at least once every week this year. Then on your 12th birthday, read every entry in order. Keep this journal forever and read it again on your 42nd birthday. Trust me, it will be mind-blowing!

I love you.

You are strong.

Nothing is an accident.

Live with intention.

Enjoy Paris.

And tell Mommy to go to the doctor in December 1989. Tell the family to come home for Christmas that year. And no matter if they listen to you or not, know that it will all be ok.

Gina

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.

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, 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.

10 Min Read, COVID, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker, I Am Not My Hair, Robert Samuel Walker, Smart and Pretty

I am Regina Lynette, the girl with unspectacular hair.

Regina Lynette

I can provide you a list of people who would disagree, some vehemently, that my hair is unspectacular. I can provide you a list of people who would agree with that statement. I like my hair. It’s coarse and curly, oily yet non-porous, and it is soft and shiny. It’s thick and grows relatively quickly with little breakage and requires very little product to do what it wants to do – which is be free.

The first thing said about my hair was when I was born and Mommy said to Daddy, “Oh, Bob, she has your hair.” She was happy that I had hair like the Walker side of my family because she found it beautiful. Based on my paternal grandmother and her children and grandchildren, our hair is coarse but soft to the touch; it’s curly when we’re younger and loosens into waves when older; we begin to gray young (usually stark white); and men keep it short while women keep it long (unofficial rules). My mother’s hair was very coarse and relatively thick. Her hair started turning gray at a relatively young age – she kept it colored so I don’t know when it started. And she kept it short – above the shoulder – and kept going shorter. I don’t know the reason behind the length, so I don’t know if it had anything to do with the hair growth itself.

Just months old, Mama had to tape ribbons in my hair – no velcro available in my day.

I’m grateful that the combination of my genes totals what I have today. Daddy would tell me how pretty my hair was first thing in the morning, before it had been combed and styled for the day. I asked him what he meant because my hair was wild and fuzzy, and he said that the hair in and of itself was what he found beautiful. Mommy would style it in plaits or ring curls, and I was to show it off to Daddy when she was done for him to say how pretty it was, loud enough for her to hear. People at church made complimenting my hair a part of the greeting. And whenever my kiddie hairstyle wasn’t quite what someone expected, it was voiced, quite pointedly, that Mommy needed to go back to the standard plaits or ring curls and never waiver again. And what I learned in third grade was that the plaits were supposed to be free to swing. My assistant principal asked if my mom tied my plaits together in the back because she didn’t want them to fly away when really they were connected because it required finding fewer matching barrettes. He was being silly but the element of truth in his joke was that he noticed I’d been wearing the same style a very long time and felt the need to comment. And the culmination of years of peoples’ opinions during my childhood taught me that my hair was part of my overall value.

Ring curls for Easter Sunday – EVERY Easter Sunday

I was not allowed to cut my hair before I turned 18. And when I turned 18, I cut my hair into a chin length bob. I cried. I loved it but I couldn’t stand looking at all the hair that was piled on the floor. And I didn’t touch it much at first – it was so strange not to have enough hair to pull into a ponytail. My stylist wouldn’t do the cut until she received express approval from Daddy. I tried for years to convince a stylist into cutting my hair and just risking whatever punishment I might get but not one of them would do it. And he gave approval because it was promised, not because he thought cutting my hair was okay. And while it wasn’t specifically stated that bob was truly the shortest I would have been allowed to go.

Cutting my hair then, for me, was about looking more mature. I thought a ponytail was for the young. Cutting my hair then, to Daddy, was part of my “wandering spirit”. It was something to experience because I could, and he fully believed I would prefer to return to wearing my hair long. Cutting my hair to this one old lady from my church was a sin and I was on my way to hell along with my parents who allowed it and my stylist who did it. Cutting my hair to other people was wrong because there are women in the world who cannot grow their hair long.

A chin-length bob has always been the shortest length acceptable to Daddy and many of his relatives.

As an adult, I took interest in learning to take care of my hair so that I would have the freedom to wear it however I felt. In college I considered going relaxer-free for the first time. I did it without any education or planning so it wasn’t successful. When I started transitioning, I wore my hair in two braids a lot and sometimes in a bun. After giving up and getting a relaxer touch-up because I truly had no direction, I was scolded for having waited so long before getting a relaxer and was told to never do that again. After trying different cuts and different hair colors I hit a sweet spot with tri-color highlights and long layers on relaxed hair. I was so excited to have found what I judged the perfect style. Unfortunately, it was not maintained by the perfect stylist and a combination of too many chemicals and trying to exercise outdoors in triple-digit temps with no hat created breakage in my crown. Breakage in the crown meant a significant cut so I took some time to figure out what I wanted to do.

A timely visit to my father’s family made me wonder if I had what they had – I’d worn my hair chemically straightened since I was nine so I didn’t know what my curls or waves would look like twenty years later. So I decided to cut off all the chemically treated hair and go completely natural. I literally went to three shops, including a barber shop, and literally no one would cut my hair. I didn’t necessarily want a particular style, I just didn’t want it to look like it was cut with safety scissors and edged with a butter knife. And they all refused. I made my way to a natural hair salon and during my consultation she told me that the front of my hair should grow a little longer for the cut to look good and to wait three or four months before cutting. I kept it in a protective style for those months and I did the big chop as soon as I could. I had a teeny-weeny afro with tighter curls than I imagined, and I absolutely loved what was on my head. And I learned how to take care of it, and I focused on the care and treatment of my hair intensely. I didn’t necessarily show off my new cut – especially to my father’s family – because I wasn’t interested in anyone’s opinion. But that doesn’t stop people from saying what they want to say. I was told that it was unattractive and to never cut it that short again by relatives on both sides. I was told by people I worked with that it made me look thinner. And I was approached everywhere I went by other black women who asked me about my stylist and products I used.

The first four years chemical free starting with my Big Chop. I didn’t even put any heat on it during that time other than a blow-out in the first year for trimming and to check out my ‘fro.

Cutting my hair then for me was a change I made primarily because it was damaged, and I wanted to try something new. Cutting my hair then for my relatives was just a temporary solution to a problem and something to endure until it was long and straight again. Cutting my hair then for “society” was a statement of my blackness and my woman-ness and my American-ness. I wish I could have photographed the faces of all the people who had made various assumptions about me based on my hair the moment they learned they had me all wrong. And it’s funny that out of all the misconceptions, no one had the same misconception. Cutting my hair then had nothing to do with me as a person. It was the first time I didn’t think my hair was part of my overall value and I was irritated when other people continued to push that message (and burden) onto me.

Along the way, in addition to releasing the idea that my hair was somehow associated with my value as a person, I realized the significance of changing your hair after certain life events. I know there are many cultures who cut their hair after deaths and other losses and to symbolize new beginnings of all kinds. I was only ever advised to never cut my hair. No one told me that the urge to cut that man out of my hair after a breakup was primal and a wonderful release. And when I gave in to that urge, just wow! And no one told me that the urge to go red was a sign of strength – whether you are strong or need to be strong, red hair can embolden you for anything that comes your way. After I graduated college, my sister called me “Rebel Gina” because I was angry and saying “no” to everything I’d ever been taught in life. The hair during that time? Short, red, and wild.

This is NOT “Rebel Gina” but this is a short and red phase of life. It just so happens I regretted this cut myself, but I loved the color.

But just like when I was looking for that fat girl in old childhood pictures, I looked for the girl whose hair was supposedly spectacular. I looked for the girl who was identified in a crowd because of her hair. I searched out the girl who was somehow made better because she had something regarded unique on her head. And all I can see is that there were many other people around me who had hair that was significantly more spectacular than mine. I saw nothing particularly special about my hair. And I have the courage to admit it, the freedom to accept it – my hair is utterly unspectacular. But I understand that when it’s viewed through the lenses of others who don’t have the same kind of flexibility of styling that my coarse, curly, shiny, graying hair allows me that it appears to have some additional value. I no longer internalize that view because it says nothing about me and everything about them. My hair is not a part of what makes me valuable and I’d go as far as to say my hair has nothing to do with my identity. Sure, I can see where I inherited what I have from my ancestors, but apart from genetics, it has nothing to do with my identity. I use it as an expression of something or an accessory sometimes but it’s no more spectacular than my earrings and graphic tees.

Fourth Grade, Oakshire Elementary School – Memphis, Tennessee

Thank you, everyone, who has complimented my hair. I feel good when you agree with me that what I have on my head allows me to be free. And it’s okay if you don’t like the style I’ve chosen – you don’t have to remind me of better styles or try to drill it in my head that you don’t like my choice. Sometimes I don’t like my choice either. All of that is good but there is no value, uniqueness, nor importance in my hair.

March 30, 2020 – Just before my city went to COVID related Safer-at-Home orders. And I miss my stylist!

I am Regina Lynette, the girl with unspectacular hair.