As I walked the dusty trails of the Whitney Plantation, the crunching of the gravel under my feet served as the soundtrack to the storm of thoughts and emotions running through my head.
It was a perfect 77 degrees with the wind working in concert with the sun to pull me into a silence reverence of sorts.
As I stood here, I couldn’t help but to think about my unofficial status as the “Historian / Ancestor Whisperer” of my family.
Admittedly, remembering what I was told at the outset of my effort always incensed me…
“You won’t get that far.”
“Other people have tried and came up empty.”
“Who do you think you are?”
Earlier this year – I had a family member openly question my intelligence, pointedly telling me that I was a fool. Pointing out that this genealogy shit doesn’t matter – he contended that everything that I learned came out of a book, my education and degrees didn’t mean shit because I knew nothing about the world.
Nonplussed, I took note of his observation and continued on…
But – what he said echoed.
Over the course of the past 3 years and some change that I’ve traced the roots of my family tree, I’ve wondered silently and said nothing.
What is the end game?
Does this shit matter?
Am I wasting my time?
Am I the fool he branded me as?
It was then that I realized.
That the doubts that I had about the value of my efforts haunted and followed me to this place.
And I did what I often do – pushed the doubts to the margins of my mind and I walked.
This place, a venue of sobering beauty where other human beings were “owned” by other human beings, with their humanity not even considered an afterthought, seemed to be frozen in time.
Our tour guide’s reference to the slaves being worked to death wasn’t hyperbole he said – a fact that was not new information to me. However, it was his sidebar about the studies of the exhumed bodies of slaves bearing evidence that most of the adult skeletons had lesions on their arms, legs and shoulder bones, where the muscles were torn away from the tendons from overwork was.
The average lifespan of a slave on a sugar plantation was 10 years at the maximum.
I swallowed hard and felt my jaw tighten up and it stayed that way for the rest of the tour.
Truth be told, I would be remiss if I didn’t include this in the pantheon of the best 90 minutes spent in my life.
This tour helped to remind and reinforce that the evils of slavery – America’s original sin, is something glossed over as something that happened in the distant past.
But – theses ripples still shake our foundations.
Slavery procured its power from the dissolution of the family unit.
In Louisiana and most parts of the South, children younger than 10 years old had to be sold with the mother as part of a package deal.
Children older than 10, were regarded as adults and could be sold individually…
In 2018, I am 5 generations removed from slavery.
My 3rd Great Grandfather was born a slave in Alabama on Valentine’s Day 1840, when he secured his freedom, he joined the Union Army in the waning days of the American Civil War rising to the rank of Corporal.
For the sake of perspective – he is the Great Grandfather of my maternal Grandmother, her father (my Great Grandfather) was named after him and like his Grandfather, he joined the Army during World War I.
The bond of family is something that I never took for granted…
Accordingly, this fealty to family is something that has been handed down through the generations.
It was on this path where I bowed my head in acknowledgement with an understanding.
I owe a debt – to my ancestors.
It began to sink in that IF my efforts could serve as a testament to their love of family triumphing over what inhumanity COULD NOT rip asunder.
Then maybe – I could begin to be worthy to stand on their shoulders.
Because legacy matters and we have power in numbers.
That my efforts do matter – because we are their children.
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