I grew up in a house situated on a tiny lawn with a ginormous unkempt magnolia tree in the back and a mighty oak in the front. The land and house were not large enough for those trees and they created a bit of a mess of the lawn with roots and affecting drainage. But I didn’t understand any of that as a child and it didn’t matter too much – it was my yard to navigate. I loved those trees and felt like they were planted just for me, and I hold on to memories of those trees today.
I love magnolia blooms. They’re beautiful. And they smell glorious. I love walking around and catching a whiff of a magnolia bloom before I notice the tree. And it seems so wrong to pluck a bloom – everyone who walks the same path deserves to catch the same scent and then turn and see the same beauty I’ve experienced. I might take a petal with me though, if there are not too many critters to fight and I can reach a bloom easily. Sometimes I rub my skin with the fragrance from the petal. Magnolia blooms are a reminder of the glory of creation – it’s pretty and it smells nice.
Me and my acorn tree in the fall.
I always called the tree in our front yard an “acorn tree” because, well, acorns. Because there are so many kinds of oak trees, I don’t always recognize them immediately on sight. But I recognize them by their fruit – when I see acorns on the ground, I smile and look for the “acorn tree” it fell from. And when I do I’m usually surprised to realize I’m absolutely surrounded by them. The greatest of them make the best shade trees, as did my “acorn tree”. Despite the ubiquitous nature of the acorn, they turn up during critical moments like messages from God.
The first time I received a message in the form of an acorn, it was one of many in a series all in the same day. I had decided, rather logically and fairly stoically that I wanted to die. I selected a date of death and prayed for a clear sign from God if there was anything good to come in my future. And the acorn was the first message I saw. This acorn turned up in a place where there were no trees around when I looked up. It saved my life. I found them in the weirdest places all day – in places where there were no “acorn trees” nearby – in between seeing suicide hotline numbers written in chalk nearly everywhere I walked that day.
The second time I received a message in the form of an acorn, it was startling and a bit unclear at first. A young oak tree was placed in front of the door where I worked and could look at it the entire workday. Then it was moved a little further down the lawn and another oak planted in its place. In a couple of years the oak tree that had been moved produced an impossibly large number of acorns and they were the largest I’d ever seen – larger than walnuts. I don’t claim to know anything at all about the propagation of “acorn trees” or what all acorns look like, but everyone I’ve mentioned this to and the people who witnessed them observed that this was particularly odd and no one had ever seen acorns quite so large. The message was one of hope and I received it just before a major life change – I entered a season of growth, learning things that were clearly preparing me for my life’s dream.
The third time I received a message in the form of an acorn was just a few days ago. And it’s a message of hope and courage, something to push me through the fear that’s stopping me from continuing to move in the direction of my dreams. I recently found a renewed energy to continue towards making an abundant life in spite of all the disappointments and delays, but fear proved to be a formidable obstacle in a way it never had before. I found one acorn on the stairs toward my living area – literally inside the house – and then a second upstairs in my living area. This was the most startling find because there is no oak tree at our house and the acorns were too large to fit in the sole of a shoe nor likely to be tracked in by any source I can think of. It was incredibly odd to find them upstairs because I don’t go anywhere to track in acorns because, well, COVID.
Me and my acorn tree in the spring.
The significance of acorns to me is two-fold. The fact that they were around during my childhood feels like a reminder of my origins and the place where I first became aware of my life’s dream and my life’s purpose. I recall I was about 11 years old on an afternoon that I should have been doing homework but was staring through the door at my “acorn tree” daydreaming when I formed the realization into a vision. This vision didn’t align with Mommy’s plans for me so I never told anyone until after both my parents died. I did imagine it would happen much later in life even though I hoped it would begin in my mid-twenties. As I am beyond my mid-twenties, I suppose my imagining was correct. On the other side of the same “acorn” coin, an acorn represents a seed – a relatively tiny seed that in a lot of time has the potential to grow into something that we call mighty, something that provides a covering, something to climb, and something that remains strong and sturdy with deep roots for a very long time while remaining abundantly fruitful. To sum it up, the acorn is a reminder of possibilities that manifest relatively slowly but are effectively everlasting. And thus they serve as a reminder of my life dreams that are manifesting slowly but will be something that others call mighty and will last for generations.
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.
Dorothy Lee Thomas was born on October 31, 1925. I’ve only ever heard her called Dorothy, so I’ve only ever called her Dorothy because no one ever corrected me. I wouldn’t dare attempt anything southern like Mee-Maw, but I don’t think anything modern like G-Momma is quite right either. I think I would have called her Grandmother should we have had a relationship. So, as of October 31, 2021, I call her Grandmother.
I feel somewhat lucky to have not made any memories of spending time with Dorothy Lee. It sounds illogical because I also feel tremendous loss from not knowing her. Here is the reason I find myself so lucky. Dorothy Lee’s actions caused many people who knew her a lot of pain and confusion. Should I have known her in the natural during the first nine years of my life I might be stuck with terrible memories and anger and grief as well. But as I get to know her as an ancestor, I get to see the impossibility of Dorothy Lee and can love her from a spiritual place. I can love her from a place where she’s eternal.
The first big thing that happened to Dorothy Lee after she was born was that she lost her place as the baby of the family when her mother gave birth to her third daughter in not even as many years. Now Dorothy was the middle child of a trio of infant girls. Before she could begin to learn what that meant for her, and just as she made peace with the idea of sharing her parents with her sisters, she lost her baby sister. And no one helped her with her grief because no one believed a 19-month-old toddler knew to grieve her baby sister. And no one helped her with her grief because everyone else was grieving a 6-month-old baby. And no one ever believed Dorothy could possibly feel any residual pain of her own from losing her baby sister. But I know she did. She absolutely had to feel it. I have one memory from my life between birth and 36 months old. It’s probably more of a blend of multiple events morphed into one trauma – there are some connectors missing and mismatched details – but it was a memory of something that affected my behavior, shaped my attitudes, and kept me in a loop of abuse and misuse for twenty years before I asked my family if there was such a secret. I saw the pain on their faces and could see that they were reliving, to a degree, the painful event that they swore to secrecy because they believed I couldn’t possibly remember it. And I saw that in order to protect themselves they would have projected that pain on each other. Because the point of my inquiry was to know what was true so that I could begin to move forward and break the loop of abuse and misuse, I left them out of it and continued seeking help to navigate those painful memories. I maintain that my life would have been better if my pain had been considered at the time it happened and I had been taught how to move forward in life from that trauma. But, unlike Dorothy Lee, I was able to get good help years later of my own volition. Grandmother would have been comforted and encouraged by her family as a child through her grief of her baby sister rather than be left to her own toddler devices. And Grandmother would have told my mother to talk to me about what happened to me as a child rather than trying and failing to protect my feelings. Grandmother would have shown Mommy that she was leaving me to my own toddler devices to process and live through the terrible things that happened. Grandmother would have held me and my mother both as she talked to me – boldly speaking to a toddler about things that are too heavy for some adults to carry, empowering me along the way.
Within the first 36 months, Gina needed Grandmother.
The second big thing that happened to Dorothy was that her parents separated. I don’t know the reason nor the length of time of separation – nothing was documented as a divorce at any time, but Dorothy, her sister and her mother were listed on one census record with her maternal grandparents while Dorothy, her sister and her father were listed on another with her father’s auntie. This is also the year of a few family deaths, none more significant than Dorothy’s mother. Dorothy was just 14 years old when she lost her mother. I know two things about losing your mother as a teenager. First, no one in the world can explain what it is like to be the baby girl of the family and to lose your mother just as you are becoming a lady unless it happened to you. Second, grief is just as unique as the person who is experiencing it and no two people grieve alike. Dorothy was going through a second loss that I know no one helped her through. Worst case scenario she was a burden to be ignored or passed off. Best case scenario, everyone was so busy making sure she was provided for and had care that no one had time to care for her. But Grandmother, who got the help she needed from losing her mother, was by my side when I lost mine. She was the voice, yet again, telling the family how to look out for me and how to get me back up to a place of functionality so that I wouldn’t have to wait until I was an adult to get treatment for grief and trauma. Grandmother would hold me in her arms and let me sob in her chest until my head throbbed and I fell asleep from exhaustion. And then she would tell me that I was the strongest person she knew, that my tender-heart was the strongest part of me. She would say that it was beautiful that I was able to fall apart into her arms, having the courage to both feel and express my pain and to be able to trust her with my most vulnerable parts. I can feel Grandmother’s hands around my face, cupping the tears that fell from my chin and letting them roll down the insides of her wrists. Smiling through her own tears and wiping away my fresh tears with her thumbs, Grandmother would look into my eyes for my silent questions, and she would wait until she could see I got the answers from looking into her eyes.
Dorothy had a baby girl and got married as a teenager and her husband left four months later to serve in World War II. I don’t have a lot of answers about that period of time and maybe that’s something that will be made clear at another time. But Grandmother is who I would have talked to about my teenage relationships and the one person’s advice I would have trusted implicitly. Grandmother would tell me all about my biological grandfather, what the family thought of him, why she didn’t get married until a month after my mother was born, what it was like for her husband to leave for war, and how the relationship ended. I would have made the same teenager decisions I made for the same reasons I made them, but I wouldn’t have made myself sick with doubt and grief prolonging the closing season for those teenage relationships. Then I would have walked hand in hand with Grandmother in places where the grass was lush and green while she beamed at me with pride, knowing I was moving forward courageously, unconcerned that I would have all the relationships I needed along the way.
Teenage Regina needed Grandmother.
Dorothy had a boyfriend who was just as, if not more, significant than my biological grandfather in some ways. This boyfriend saw her talent, shared her talent, and made her an offer she wouldn’t have refused. Her father stood in between her and this dream. I believe this act – one I am certain was made out of love and the best intentions – was the beginning of a horrible downfall provoking Dorothy to lash out, causing regrettable and significant harm to her loved ones. So, because I can know Dorothy as the Grandmother who sang in talent shows and with doo-wop groups, I can spend time with the Grandmother who tells me that I can have everything I’ve ever dreamed of and more. Grandmother calls me her “partner” – because she can see so much of herself in me. I am the one who drives her everywhere she needs to go while we sing every song on the radio at the top of our lungs together. We spend Saturdays together, sitting on the floor in a small room where her phonograph (that still works fine) is stored, listening to records. When it’s my turn to choose songs, I select some vinyl that makes her smile and then choose some things from my iPhone that I know she’ll absolutely love to hate. We’ll sing together and I’ll read liner notes to her while we listen to music for hours exchanging fun facts about the musicians. And she’ll have a couple fingers of something brown and smooth while teasing me for preferring something pink with bubbles. When I see she’s getting sleepy, I begin to put away the records with the same care she taught me when I was very little. When we’ve played our last song for the night, I walk her to her bed and tuck her in just before kissing her cheek. Grandmother knows I can’t sing for shit but loves the way I sing with my whole heart. She laughs at me when I screech out the high notes and when I ask why she’s laughing, she tells me that she laughs when she’s happy.
Dorothy Lee wrote on the back of this photo that she was too flabby and that this was her real hair. She would write addresses and stories on the back of photos that she sent but never the date.
This is the Grandmother with whom I spent last Halloween. October 31, 1925 was Grandmother’s 96th birthday. She didn’t grow up in a perfect world – life dealt its blows often leaving her heartbroken – but she lived with all of her needs met, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual. She tells stories of love and loved ones lost, of dreams deferred and changed, and how to find the beautiful things in a world of ugliness. She smiles at me with her eyes and her heart, knowing that she walked the path she did so that I would have someone holding my hand while I walked the path destined for me to walk. She is happy to do it because with everything I go through, she gets to advise me from a place of experience. When she recalls wondering why such terrible things happened to her when she was younger, it all makes sense when she sees me.
I am Regina Lynette, granddaughter of Dorothy Lee.
I was raised in the Missionary Baptist Church. At eight years old I publicly made my confession, was water-baptized, received communion, and was offered the right hand of fellowship with membership into my childhood home church, from here on out to be called NNMBC. About nine years later that church split, let’s just say over issues with follow-on leadership. I would spend the next year of my Christianity absorbing religious teachings with an unbelievable and relatively new zeal in a new church, from here on out to be called NBMBC. Later, I would start cautiously wandering away from what I was taught, testing ideas about my religion, and finding out some truths for myself.
Daddy was my trusted personal religious leader and when I had questions about anything regarding religion – ours and others – I trusted him to be completely honest in his responses. I would go to Daddy before anyone else because I knew that what he had to say would be based on experience or from his own research and education, and that he would refer me to texts that would support his answers. I also trusted him to honestly admit if he didn’t know something and that he would do the research and get back to me or encourage me to do the research with him. Even though some of what he would say would fall in the category of dogma, his delivery was never dogmatic and always logical (despite religion or spirituality not being what I would define as logical). But then I went to college, and everything went to hell. Okay, everything didn’t go to hell, and I can’t even justify that level of melodrama here, so, I take it back. But college was the start of curiosity, circumstance, and independence taking me along a slightly different path than I ever imagined.
This is Regina wearing the suit that would become my “Communion Sunday” suit. How I never spilled grape juice on my all white was miraculous.
The first year of college, I partnered up with a new friend who matched my particular freshman demographic in my search for a church family in the town where I attended school. We were both female, away from home, and part of the 5% minority population of the university. One of the things that created a firmer bond early in our friendship was that we were both daughters of black Baptist preachers who needed to find a church to attend regularly while we were away from home, and we believed it should be a Baptist church. We were glad to be on this search together and found we wanted similar things from a church-home-away-from-home. Unfortunately and universally we found, beyond doctrine and styles of worship, that we didn’t feel welcome in those churches. We were our best Baptist Christian selves and were snubbed by those who we expected to welcome us to the family and offer the right hand of fellowship. We dutifully stood as visitors, reciting the most relevant details of what I like to call our “Christian resumes”, offering ourselves to be cradled in the arms of the churches and we didn’t find a place that felt like home as we hoped. After reporting back to our families our lack of success and the new routes we planned to take – seeking Christian churches of other denominations – neither of our families were particularly happy but they trusted us to make the right decision (which was simply joining a church). It wasn’t terribly long after we started with this new plan that we landed at a charismatic church – House of God I believe was the official denomination. This church will be referred to as BHOG going forward.
I didn’t know much about the charismatic churches at that time and had to be brought up to speed on the charismatic denominations. To shorten my learning curve, those who knew I grew up in Memphis likened House of God to the Church of God In Christ. I had been curious about the Church of God In Christ forever. In my ignorance, it was the only church that I would consider charismatic (even though I didn’t get that vocabulary until I was an adult) and therefore stood alone as a strange but intriguing group of Christians. When I was growing up, Memphis was where their official leadership & headquarters was located and the place where they held a large annual conference. I knew it as “the saints coming to town” or “the COGIC coming for conference”. I wouldn’t understand that COGIC was an acronym for the Church of God In Christ until I was a little older so it sounded more like an affliction than an affiliation, and is partly why I seldom use the acronym today, even in writing. The other thing sparking my curiosity as a child about the Church of God In Christ was that Daddy and my siblings from his first wife were involved in that church for a period of time and something went terribly wrong because they spoke about the church with some unpleasantness that I don’t want to give a label. I know the story from a couple of points of view but each of them experienced it in their own way and I can’t articulate their feelings and don’t want to label them. But the point is I was always curious about the Church of God In Christ. And because the pastor of my NBMBC came from the Church of God In Christ I was exposed to certain influences that made for a more energetic style of worship than I had been accustomed.
As I said earlier, curiosity (about charismatic churches and styles of worship), circumstances (feeling terribly unwelcome in the local Baptist churches and incredibly valued in a charismatic church), and independence (more on my own than I wanted to be) led me to BHOG, ready to join under Watch Care. Watch Care was a way of joining a church under temporary circumstances – being away from home at college – so that we’d have a spiritual leader, spiritual family, and could fulfill our Christian obligations and rituals for the duration of the temporary relocation. That’s my own definition by the way, based on my experience at the time. The process of joining a church under Watch Care included presenting a letter from the pastor of your home church (NBMBC) to the Watch Care pastor (BHOG) and then finding out if you were “accepted” which, as long as there was no issue regarding beliefs about baptism (water and immersion) and you came to an understanding of where your tithes were going, you would generally be “accepted”. What I was unprepared for was that my pastor (NBMBC) would outright refuse to write me a letter because, as he explained, he’d spent time in the Church of God In Christ which to him was equivalent to BHOG and I had no clue what I was getting myself into. I found this a bit irrational and not only insufficient but also an unacceptable explanation, so I decided to go to Daddy. He was not my pastor, but he was the assistant pastor at NBMBC; the person who responded to my tugs on his heartstrings; and the person whose guidance, for me, would trump anyone else’s. I would explain all this to BHOG so that I would be “accepted”. Unfortunately it was one of the few times that Daddy hid behind a very weak excuse, refusing to write a letter because he wasn’t officially my pastor. But I knew it was because he didn’t support my choice of church. He did believe in order and that it was my pastor’s place to write the letter, but if he’d felt differently about the church I’d chosen, he would have written the letter and that would have been the end of it. So, with no possibilities of getting a letter, I approached the BHOG pastor and before I could even start to explain that I couldn’t get a letter, he told me that he never expected that I’d get a letter and that if I was still interested in joining his church, he’d give me a modified version of the process which combined regular membership orientation with Watch Care orientation. And he was careful to explain to me that my tithes were expected to go to BHOG and not NBMBC.
This was the last Sunday that I attended BHOG This is on the steps of the new building they moved to just before I graduated college.
While in college I took two religious studies courses while having “left” my home church and denomination for a “new” church and denomination. It was so interesting learning academically about so many other religions and this was the first time I began to embrace all the Abrahamic religions and became unusually fascinated by the Wiccan studies. I’d determined that if I had been born with absolutely no religious belief set and sought out my own by studying them all, I probably would be Wiccan. It would be years, literally over a decade, before I would openly share that with Christians who felt invested in my religious path. It didn’t go over well but at least I wasn’t met with rescue efforts because by then I was certain that I was going to be a Christian for life.
Daddy got sick when I had about two years left in my college career. He was struggling with a cancer diagnosis, and he was nearly 80 years old. As the possibility of his death felt almost tangible, I took my prayer requests to my BHOG church family. I didn’t feel I had a place at NBMBC anymore except on paper and my NBMBC pastor was in jail much of this time anyway. (Yes, I’m going to leave that right there for now and I can’t promise I’ll revisit it with any significance.) And so my BHOG family supported me and prayed with me and believed with me for Daddy’s healing. While I prayed for his healing, I also began grieving him. I had no doubt that God would hear my prayer, but I also didn’t want Daddy to suffer simply for the sake of my not wanting to let him go. After some time Daddy was effectually healed of the cancer but his body was a wreck from the treatment. Not to mention, as assistant pastor at NBMBC he took on the responsibility of managing the church in my pastor’s absence. He fell into a vicious cycle of taking care of the church until he would get sick and be admitted to the hospital. He’d recover somewhat and head back to the church to start the cycle all over again. I was infuriated. All along I had begged my NBMBC pastor not to make Daddy the assistant pastor because he was in his 70s and to get some more preachers at the church. My NBMBC pastor was not in agreement with what I thought was quite logical – having someone who is twice your age be your second in command was impractical to say the least and stupid to say the most. Don’t you want someone who can take on the torch after you’re gone? And hadn’t we as a church just struggled with the idea that my NNMBC pastor had to be “sat down” by the parishioners because he was too old and didn’t want to let go of pastoring? I mean if you are of the opinion that there is such a thing as “too old”, why would anyone who was over 70 years old be in position to takeover the church? I appreciated that he regarded Daddy as a wise advisor – the only reason he gave me for his choice – but I disagreed that Daddy needed any responsibility for the actual running of the church. I digress, but only a bit. My experiences, disappointments, and other slights from NBMBC (along with the ones from NNMBC that I haven’t mentioned) began to change the way I viewed what it meant to be a Christian.
After Daddy’s cancer was in remission and while he was sick from the treatment, I continued with my grieving. I felt he wouldn’t be with me much longer – even though I still had ideas that he’d at least see 90 – and I needed to be ready to let him go. The only problem with my acceptance that he was nearing the end of his life is that my BHOG family didn’t listen to me and continued to pray for something I was no longer believing for or wanted. And my confidences were betrayed – with the best intentions of caring for me – so my trust in them faltered. Daddy died during my last semester of college and while my BHOG family cared for me during my grief more than any other spiritual family, I felt unseen and therefore, though it sounds extreme, no longer loved or safe. I remember being asked to stand at BHOG during the Sunday evening service held the same night I returned to college from having attended Daddy’s funeral. I went because I didn’t want to be alone with my grief and my religion was supposed to be the thing that held me up and strengthened me and would help me finish my college degree. My BHOG pastor said something about how impressive it was that I was at church because it said something about my commitment to the church – not being lazy or using my travel to bury my father as an excuse to not make it to church – and that was the end of my time at BHOG even though I would not officially leave until I graduated.
I’m not headed to church here, but I don’t have any post-college church pictures so, next best thing.
Just before I graduated college I began isolating myself from the church in general, beginning with intentionally not attending church regularly. I remember the first Sunday I purposely didn’t go to church. I sat on my bed and read the newspaper and felt so free. I very specifically felt exactly free. People came by to check on me after service – because as I said I truly had a church family – and I was a bit defiant with some, testing their ministry to me. I remember one thing I thought truly trivial yet hypocritical was that in all the years I had heard “come as you are” in every church, it apparently didn’t apply to me and no one could even hear the contradiction in what they were telling me. What I heard was that based on what I call my religious resume, I was no longer in the category of folks who could just come as they were, and if I didn’t attend church in my regular “uniform” (which at the time was a suit or dress, control top pantyhose, and heels) then I would be inappropriately dressed. Offering that I couldn’t afford dry-cleaning was not met with an offer of financial help but with encouragement to just find a way. I maintained it should have been acceptable for me to wear jeans to church. All of these tiny contradictions and small hypocrisies, the prophe-lies* and the manipulations, and all the things that humans tend to do to anything they put their hands on all wrapped up into one big trauma, and it wore on the ties I had to the religion I was born into and loved – Missionary Baptist Christianity. Add to that the season of Rebel Gina which followed college graduation – my seemingly unpredictable, irrational and consistent anger along with a uniform of olive green and black – and I essentially walked away from the church. It is most important that I am clear that I walked away from the church (the building and the fellowship) – not my beliefs. While I agree that I am instructed not to forsake the fellowship, I maintain that I should be particular in choosing who is in the fellowship.
Tons of words again. Have we made this a three-parter? Probably.
I am Regina Lynette. I am a Baptist Christian. Probably.
*Prophe-lies, pronounced ‘prof-uh-lize’, is a lie, typically that serves another’s own agenda, that is shared under the cover of a prophecy.
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.
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.
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.
After my mother died my father remarried. He was looking for a way out of a financial bind and a new mother for me – or a way to not be alone because he knew I wanted to live with one of my sisters. So, my father made a mistake and he married an abusive witch who made my life, our lives, hell until we escaped. I left for college; he left for heaven. The last five years before I graduated high school was not only a hell created and maintained by my step-monster, but my father emotionally abandoned me at the same time. His abandon was driven by many things, mostly those pesky good intentions, but mainly by my step-monster’s “rules”. I was not allowed to talk with my father alone. Ever. And that was one thing he and I had my entire life – time alone together for philosophical conversations, even as a very young child. I tried to hold on to the fact that my father loved me during this time but many of his behaviors did not demonstrate love. However, on the other side of that period of time it would turn out to be the knowledge that he loved me that would facilitate the healing of my broken heart.
Tell me that old man doesn’t adore that little girl! That’s me on my first birthday in my Daddy’s arms.
I went to university in another city and only visited him once a year and only at our church building. I refused to return to that witch’s house ever again after I left town hours after high school graduation. Then he was diagnosed with lymphoma. I can’t remember any details of that except I kept up to date with his progress through my sister – his oldest daughter – and I was able to talk to him on the phone occasionally. Even though I’d prayed for his healing and elicited prayers from my Watch-Care church, I prepared myself for his death. He was in his late 70s living with an inhumane abusive human, trying to help pastor a church while our pastor was in jail. I found a level of resolution and peace about his death, which would possibly happen during critical classes in my final year, and would alert my professors and the dean that I might miss a week of classes with little notice should he die.
Because my father was old and ill (he was healed of the cancer, but his body was worn out from the chemo) I went to visit him over Christmas break during my last year in school. Unfortunately this meant I had to go into the step-monster’s house and she had the nerve to try and keep me away from him – I’d had a lingering cough from pneumonia but was well. She and I almost fought, physically, twice during that short visit. But it was during that visit, he and I finally and truly reconciled. We shared a few poignant moments that I am very grateful for because that was the last time I would see him alive.
Before going to New Nonconnah Missionary Baptist Church in Memphis one cold Easter Sunday morning.
That Valentine’s Day, a Monday, was an early day in my teaching schedule – I had to get up about 5AM to be sure to arrive at school in time. After I finished my shower, still standing in my robe, I saw my answering machine flashing. My heart fell. No one would call me at that hour unless it was horrible news. I listened to the message hoping the person would have left the details of the call in the message but they didn’t. It was my sister – my father’s oldest daughter – telling me to call her as soon as possible. That could only mean that something had happened to Daddy. I thought to take a moment and calm my breathing, maybe get dressed to feel less vulnerable but I couldn’t wait to hear the bad news. She spoke with nervous energy and asked an odd question – she asked if I knew why she was calling. I suppose someone else should have called me first because someone called her to tell her what she called to relay. But no one had called and I didn’t expect anyone to call me with any news about Daddy but her. And I really wanted her to get to the point. I told her I assumed it was something about Daddy and she told me that he’d died about an hour or two before she called.
I told her I needed to get to the school but to let me know as soon as anyone decided on a date for the funeral so I could alert the dean and try to work something out to be at the funeral and to graduate on time. I didn’t really cry – a few tears made their way through but I didn’t give in to the urge to cry. I had business to take care of, like figuring out how to get to a funeral and back to class within the allowed days of absence required to pass. I couldn’t break down – be non-functional – so I didn’t allow grief to set in.
I went to school and told the lead teachers that my father had died that morning and that I would need to speak with the dean when she arrived. The dean’s son was in my class and one of my assigned students to monitor development (no pressure, right) so I would see her when she dropped him off. One of the lead teachers interrupted me just after I said the words that my father had died and unofficially suggested I be allowed more time off and still be allowed to graduate on time. She gave me the standard 5 days that the employed teachers received as a part of their benefits and I was so grateful. I asked to stay and finish that day because I had no idea when the funeral would be. You see, there are many things that can delay a funeral in the Black American culture and I was the only black person in my whole major at that school. I hoped they were ready back home and could pull it off within that week but I didn’t know.
Because that day was so exhausting emotionally, and I was developing some weird nervous ticks, I started my 5 days leave the next day, that Tuesday. I still hadn’t really cried and was making my heart harder by the minute. My friends indulged me – I sort of lived those days in a weird haze, both wanting people to know my father was gone and not wanting anyone to say anything that would make me cry. And I took phone calls from various loved ones in Memphis annoyed by the fact checking of all the scandals – not only was I entirely uninterested in the drama I’d left behind for school, but I was the only person not living there so why would I know the answer to any of those questions? But I suppose that is a part of it all – what secrets did they know that I didn’t and vice versa. Anyway, not quite soon enough, I was on my way to say farewell to my father.
Again, I was everyone’s concern, just as I was when my mother died. But I vowed to do some things differently with his death. I wouldn’t wait on the adults to figure out what they were going to do about me. I would take care of myself as much as I could.
I refused to be a part of the funeral procession because I’d learned to hate limos since the first time I rode in one was on the way to my mother’s funeral. I’d always hated following hearses and didn’t want a police escort. I didn’t want to ride with headlights on. So I stayed with my father’s oldest daughter and went to the funeral with her promise to be my shield, allowing me to manage the funeral just as I wanted to. I also refused to view the body. That was the best choice I ever made – the last memory I have of him was us sitting together and laughing, having dinner. I have absolutely no memory of him dead and I’m glad. But this refusal meant I would not go into the church until the family processioned in because the service started with the casket open. My father’s oldest daughter, all of his children in fact, were near the back of the procession. That was not where we were supposed to be but it demonstrates just how my step-monster tore us apart. Thankfully my father’s siblings and some cousins were near the front. Some of them thought it was inappropriate that they sat in front of us but I didn’t care. I only wanted family up there and not just church folk holding step-monster up. In fact, they didn’t even know I was there until I went to speak on behalf of the family. Yes, I was on the program. No, none of the people who wrote the program told me. These were also people who claimed to be unable to find a phone number to call me and let me know my father had died. My sister let me know I was on program, thankfully, and I was able to prepare.
The funeral was not until the following Saturday, and he wasn’t buried until the following Tuesday. I returned to school that Sunday, missing the burial. I had a degree to get and no more grant and scholarship money. I managed to only need a loan for a semester and a half and I would be damned if I had to repeat a semester for a burial service. And honestly, I believe my father would have understood and even encouraged me to get my degree under those circumstances. I’ve always felt that the burial was the worst part of any funeral – dropping the body of your loved ones into freshly dug ground feels cruel. That’s not particularly logical, I know, but it’s how I feel.
It would be more than 17 years before I went to the cemetery where my father was laid to rest. I felt so much peace.
The first Valentine’s Day after he died I was furious and found myself feeling that way every Valentine’s Day after that. I thought I’d handled the situation well but in reality there was still a bunch of feelings just swept under the carpet. The refusal to grieve my father until I got my degree really meant refusal to grieve for much longer than that. The reminder that the ex who I’d once dreamed of marrying was not the right guy – he called the day Daddy died, not to offer condolences but to seek sympathy for the “saddest Valentine’s Day of his life”. The inappropriate men taking advantage of my vulnerability by hitting on me at the funeral and during the repast. The guilt I felt for having essentially abandoned much of my family simply by trying to abandon my father and step-monster. And I never knew I hated Valentine’s Day until then.
Men coming out of the grocery store with bouquets, heart-shaped candy boxes, and pink and red balloons pissed me off. And I wasn’t quite sure why. High schoolers getting on buses with giant teddy bears pissed me off. And I wasn’t quite sure why. I asked myself if it was because I didn’t have a “valentine” that day but that didn’t ring true to my emotions. Valentine’s day had never been a big deal to me and I had never received anything that felt significant from any boyfriend I’d had on valentine’s day. Even my secret admirer valentine’s day gifts were blah – I would have preferred to know who the admirer was rather than have a secret gift. So I blamed it on my Daddy’s death. It was easy to do – after all, he died on Valentine’s Day.
When I was young Valentine’s Day meant cardboard valentine’s cards, candy, and a day at school that ended with a party or a dance. Then as a young adult Valentine’s Day meant my daddy died. But now as a not-as-young adult, Valentine’s Day doesn’t mean anything at all. You know how I know? I literally forgot all about it. I didn’t send out social media greetings in memory of my father. I didn’t send any gifts to family or friends nearby. I didn’t even send myself flowers or buy any candy. When was it, Sunday? Yeah, just a regular old day.
I used to like February 14th. Then I didn’t. Now it’s not so bad.
I am Regina Lynette 