Making Peace with the Past

Tom DeWolf and I penned an article that has just appeared in the Oklahoma Humanities magazine. The them of the issue is “reconciliation” and our contribution is entitled “Making Peace with the Past.”

Oklahoma was one of the stops on the road trip we took last year to inform the writing of our book. It was a moving experience in many ways. For me, it provided an opportunity to connect with one of my ancestors — Owen Gavin — who lived in Pottawatomie County. His story is told in our article along with an account of the Tulsa race riot and our thoughts about how to use this horrific history to heal.

There are many illuminating stories in this issue and we are proud to be a part of it.

Here is the link to our article: http://www.okhumanities.org/Websites/ohc/images/Magazines/summer_2012/making_peace_with_the_past.pdf

A Provocative Question

Like so many other people throughout America and beyond, I share the grief of Trayvon Martin’s parents. I have no words to express how heavy my heart is in mourning such a vital, well-loved young man whose life was cut so short… for no logical reason I can fathom.

Like President Obama said: “If I had a son, he’d look like Trayvon.” Obviously, Newt Gingrich doesn’t comprehend the true gravity of that statement. He responded by saying he found the remark “disgraceful” and “appalling.” Geraldo Rivera cautioned people to change their dress habits, remarkably stopping short of admonishing black people to change the color of our skins.

Well… I comprehend fully the universality of Obama’s comment and deplore the insensitive statements of clueless others.

I have a son — my one and only child — who is now 42 years old and running for the US Congress in New York City. I worried about my baby every day when he was growing up in Chicago, knowing full well the price of being black in America and the dangers that lurked in the “promised land” not so far removed from the South where our ancestors were enslaved. Ironically, my son did not meet his fate until one horrific day in South Africa when he was attacked and almost beaten to death by white policemen. It was an incident that proved that racism is not just extant in America – it is a worldwide phenomenon of racial hierarchy that white people have assiduously constructed to justify heinous proclivities.

I also have two nephews (one a teenager and one in his twenties), and a grandson (who is still a baby). Even though there is no physical resemblance, they all look like Trayvon – young, black, hoodie wearing kids who love skittles and ice tea and walk blissfully unaware (in spite of parental cautions) of what horror might await in the dark of night should one encounter a disturbed man on a mission.

James Craig Anderson was brutally murdered last year in Jackson, Mississippi by a young white man who set out to “kill a nigger” and ran over his helpless victim in a car.

Troy Davis was executed last year in Georgia, declaring his innocence to the end.

There have been countless incidents from then until now….

Every day, more than 10% of the entire black male population of America languishes in prison, a profitable enterprise that supports criminalization of generations and represents an horrific new form of the slavery we thought we had escaped in 1863 with the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation.

Flashback to 1955 when Emmett Till, an innocent 14 year old, was beaten, murdered and dumped into a river with a fan tied around his neck in Money, Mississippi. His murderers bragged about what they had done in a national magazine and went free. George Zimmerman is still walking the streets while the person who threw flour on media maven Kim Kardashian was arrested on the spot.

Against this backdrop, the question I have is…. Why has this particular case inspired so much outrage? This type of egregious behavior has gone on for centuries in so many forms in so many different locations. Why this case? Why now? Is this a defining moment that will turn America around? Or is it just another “knee jerk” reaction where people jump on the bandwagon, post pictures of themselves wearing hoodies, and then retreat back into the comfort of their isolated cocoons of social media?

Is it what Fannie Lou Hamer said in 1964: “I am sick and tired of being sick and tired”? Is it because Rev. Al Sharpton made of point of publicizing this case on the broad platform he now occupies on MSNBC? Is it because George Zimmerman is not 100% white and therefore embodies an exculpation of white guilt?

I have written an entire book that exhorts people to “Gather at the Table” to heal from the acrimonious inheritance of our past. In it, Tom DeWolf and I try to deconstruct the paradigm of slavery and racism. We end our book with a call for people to become like “ripples on a pond” – start with oneself and spread the wisdom outward. Is our effort in vain or will it be the call that finally awakes an America sleeping in the comfort of a recently minted belief (coined in 2008, when Obama was elected) in a “post racial” America?

The Mahatma Ghandi said “You must be the change you wish to see in the world.” Is this it?

I pose my provocative question because — to the very root of my being – it is a question that cries out for an answer. I need to know.

Hilltop Haints

I just returned from the national gathering of Coming to the Table. This is the group that brought Tom and I together in 2008 and led to our collaboration in writing Gather at the Table. The group has grown a lot since then.

Sixty-five inquisitive, motivated souls gathered at Richmond Hill, a location of enormous historical importance. We spent a weekend engaging in dialogue about history, slavery, racism, and healing. As the birthplace of both America and American slavery, Virginia (not to mention Richmond) held deep meaning for us all.

Over the course of the weekend, Tom and I made a presentation about our book to an enthusiastic audience. The many compliments we received for our reading inspired hope that our book can become a best seller. I also led a genealogy workshop to teach people how to do both forward and reverse research to discover linked descendants. During my personal time, I spent several hours at the Library of Virginia, a leading research center for genealogists and historians.

The great irony for me was finding out that the man who gave the city of Richmond its name in 1737 is connected to the family I am researching in Mississippi. William Byrd gazed out over the horizon at what is now Richmond Hill in 1737 and named the town for his birthplace at Richmond-on-Thames, England. One of Byrd’s descendants, Bathia Byrd, married Charles Gavin — the great grandfather of Robert Gavin — the man who fathered 17 children with my GGGrandmother, Bettie Warfe.

It is a small world indeed when one can time travel through centuries and find such profound connections. That idea is even more poignant when considering that Richmond Hill is so near to St. John’s Church, where Patrick Henry delivered his speech that extolled: “Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!” Richmond went on to become the capitol of the Confederate states. Richmond Hill is today an ecumenical retreat center focused on prayer, healing, hospitality and reconciliation.

This experience reminded me once again how powerful ancestral spirits can be. The bright ones stand with us as we attempt to heal from the traumas of slavery and racism. There was a great deal of talk about that over the weekend — along with a heap of praying and reconciling.

My takeaway from all this is the satisfaction of knowing that many people see things the way I do. Our “hidden wound” longs to be healed and there are at least 65 people on planet Earth who are committed to transformation. It was powerful indeed to sit atop Richmond Hill in unity, gazing out at a future we will help unfurl.

After processing my feelings on the long drive back home, I arrived to updated news about the Obama family being eviscerated yet again; women under assault over reproductive rights; growing outrage over the murder of a boy named Trayvon Martin and the impending trial of a soldier who massacred 16 people in Afghanistan.

When Gather at the Table goes on sale on October 9, our greatest hope is to be a beacon of light in a dark and scary world.

Ashay… ashay… to the ancestors who brought us this far.

NEW HOPE

I spent my entire day glued to the television, fully involved in sharing the home going service for Whitney Houston. I could not believe how riveted I was to the drama unfolding on the screen. At many points, there were tears in my eyes and a choke in my throat.

People who know me, know that I am not an overtly religious nor sentimental person. I hardly ever watch television. And I am definitely not a celebrity stalker, even though I have worked with many celebrities in my professional life. So what happened today surprises me more than I can tell you.

What I saw today was something oh so familiar. It was a heartfelt expression of the faith tradition I embraced in high school after early years of being a sedate Catholic. At 15 years old, there was no turning back once I experienced the comraderie of the Liberty Baptist Church family who embraced me; the rousing ministry of music by no less than three choirs (including the youth choir in which I sang); the eloquent and emotional preaching of the Gospel by our pastor, Rev. Abraham Patterson Jackson.

In anticipation of the start of today’s service for Whitney Houston, a commenting minister reminded viewers that it was the African American faith tradition that carried us through the hard times of slavery and the civil rights struggle; that healed us in the wake the bombing of four little girls in Birmingham and, by inference, the murder of our King of Peace (Martin Luther King)  and our shining Prince  (Malcolm X). CNN commentators repeated several times that Whitney’s mother, Cissie Houston, “brought the world to church today.” And indeed she did.

Kevin Costner spoke candidly of the racial dynamic of casting Whitney in her first movie, along with sharing stories of his own Baptist upbringing (surprise!). Dionne Warwick kept viewers on the path to deliverance. Tyler Perry showed us that he is so much more than Madea (and could have a second career as a preacher). Potter’s House pastor T.D. Jakes reminded us that “love is stronger than death.”  Alicia Keys cried out to an angel. Donnie McClurkin urged us to “Stand.”  The maligned R. Kelly sang out his heart with “I Look To You.” And then…. Pastor Marvin Winans extolled us to get our priorities in order. Stevie Wonder put us notice to get our act together “quickly” because the time for change is NOW. Even the pall bearers … when they hoisted Whitney’s stunning platinum casket onto their shoulders…. Ooooooooooooooooo what a moment.   That is not all I saw, just a few of the many extraordinary moments that touched my heart.

Seeing this live, unadulterated presentation of a a real church service — one that is all too familiar to African Americans everywhere — exponentially increased my pride in being black — a member of a cultural community that has always  and incontrovertibly been an incredible example of strength, perseverance, forgiveness and spirituality.

As I digest today’s experience, it makes me think about the work Tom and I are trying to do: Bring people to the “church of reconciliation.”

I can’t help but believe that white people have a lot to learn from us. They need to stop having knee-jerk reactions… stop crucifying our black president for what he is trying to do…. stop trying to find “a great white hope”… stop living in fear that history, as heinous as it is, will come back to hurt them.

Let the world say AMEN!

Facing History; Healing Wounds

Credit: ALEXA WELCH EDLUND/TIMES-DISPATCH

Our friends Betty Kilby Baldwin and Phoebe Kilby are featured in an article that appeared today in the Richmond Times-Dispatch in Virginia: Women Heal Wounds by Facing History.

Sharon and I met Betty and Phoebe through Coming to the Table, the community to which we belong, and which provides the healing foundation at the core of our book, Gather at the Table.

On this day, as we honor the memory of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., I hope you’ll be inspired by these two women who have committed to living out his dream in their lives and to sharing it with others.

Change

While going through some old paper files, I came across a clipping from a 2006 Vanity Fair magazine entitled “Special Alert: Horoscope USA.” It predicts “A planetary configuration not seen since 1776 is coming our way, heralding chaos, revolution, and rebirth” — a 20 year span of massive upheaval that will forever change how America sees itself and how it relates to its citizens and the world community. As the article says, “It’s going to be the 1960s, in spades.”

Astrology is one of many subjects about which I maintain an ongoing curiosity. I accept the idea that celestial bodies have an influence on human behavior. Native American prophesies intrigue me. I have read Edgar Cayce, Nostradamus, and the books of Seth. I am inclined to believe something hugely significant will occur on December 21, 2012.  Add into that mix of prophetic resonance the realities of wars, global warming,  food insecurity, water and energy resource depletion.

The convergence of so many huge challenges all at the same time makes it impossible for any thinking person to ignore that things are, indeed, changing — prophesied or not.  They have to.

By the time Gather at the Table is published in October, 2012, who knows what the state of the world will be? The leadership of numerous countries will have changed. The winner of the American presidential election will not yet be known. The EuroZone may no longer exist.  Occupy Wall Street may well have packed up its tents and gone home.  The writings of H.G. Wells may gain new import. Wars may have proliferated. By the end of December, the world as we know it may no longer exist at all.

Whatever does or does not happen, Gather at the Table will enter the public consciousness at a propitious time. A time when people are actively engaged in laying destructive legacies to rest; seeking new solutions to old problems and building new footpaths toward a better world.

It is my fervent hope that, of the 3,000 books published each day, Gather at the Table will find its way to the top of the heap as a beacon of hope in a world of change.

Family Reunion

Gavin Road, Noxubee County, Mississippi

I just returned from a family reunion. It was attended by people, old and young, who have been getting together for more than 30 years. I had never known any of them until we met this weekend at the Elliot School of International Studies at George Washington University in Washington, D.C.  I was scheduled to deliver a genealogy presentation that would help explain how we are all related. I did my best.

Everyone at the reunion is connected, either through genetic or affinitive relationships, emanating from a Scottish immigrant named Charles Gavin. Charles arrived in America in 1695; one of a group of twelve led by his father-in-law. The group settled in North Carolina and became quite prosperous owners of land and slaves. Charles’ children spread their wings as economic opportunities became available; migrating into Florida, Alabama and Mississippi, where they also owned lots of land and slaves.

My job at the family reunion was to share what I have learned through genealogical research over the last three decades. Supported by documents that prove my findings, I put it all into an historical context that was easy for people who are not genealogists to understand. As I delivered my presentation, I was greeted with stunned silence, followed by ovations. For the first time, everyone in the audience was given the opportunity to see a coherent picture of our history and relationships. We finally had a place to “belong.”

The part of the Gavin family history that involves me (and the people at the family reunion) starts in Mississippi. Just as  Charles had come to America, they went to Mississippi as a group. They arrived sometime around 1831, after the signing of the Treaty of Dancing Rabbit Creek, which ceded Native American lands to the U.S. government. The treaty created a major bonanza for people like the Gavins and they took full advantage.

In this quest for economic advancement, the ancestors I claim had nothing to celebrate. They were slaves. It was their free labor that built the Gavin franchise.  Collectively, the Gavin family owned at least 125 people in five counties. And that was just in Mississippi. Family members also had plantations in Alabama, South Carolina and Florida. After the Civil War, they even went to Brazil as “Confederadoes” and owned coffee plantations and slaves there as well.

Our side of the configuration forces a confrontation with the proverbial “nig—- in the woodpile.” At least two Gavin men fathered children with female slaves. In my line, that slave woman was Bettie Warfe. She was taken to Mississippi from Virginia as a nine year old child by John Warf, an ambitious man who hoped to cash in on the frontier bonanza. He bought some land near the Gavins in Noxubee County, Mississippi and proceeded to cultivate cotton, just like them. But he didn’t do as well as they did. In the wake of the Civil War, he cashed in, selling his land and slaves. He traded Bettie to the Gavins for a horse and ventured further onward into Mississippi, where he bought a farm christened “Starvation Hill.”

My ancestor (Bettie) had 17 children with  a scion of the Gavin family. He was the nephew of  another Gavin who fathered children with yet another slave woman. His name was Gabriel. Her name was Harriett. She had four children with him. Owned by Gabriel’s father (remember Charles? Gabriel was one of his sons), Harriet ultimately became part of an inheritance. Charles’ will left his slaves to his wife Margaret. When she died in 1853, these slaves were distributed to the next generation. In 1853, Harriet and her children were broken up and dispersed to other family members (not the father of her children), where they would continue their servitude.

When both this man (Gabriel) and his nephew (my ancestor) died, the family fought tooth and nail to keep their wealth. Neither of them left anything whatsoever to their offspring. Both were adjudicated by law to be lifelong bachelors with no heirs.  My slave ancestor (Bettie) fought the estate of her children’s father for five years after he died in 1896. She was ultimately “settled” in 1902 with $125 and an admonition to “get out of Mississippi before we start treating you like the nig……s you are.”

My “little” story is just one in a cavalcade of historical rumination. African Americans have a long and arduous history that reaches from the cotton fields of the South to the industrial cities of the North. We provided the labor that built America — literally. We are the only American immigrants who did not come here by choice and, over the four centuries we have been in this land, have contributed in every possible way to the evolution of American society.

I have a hard time coming to terms with all this history. Engaging in a journey with Tom DeWolf, who descends from the largest slave trading family in American history, and writing Gather at the Table, is my attempt to find resolution and peace. Attending the Gavin family reunion is another.

Our ancestors struggled too long and too hard to be forgotten and I am firmly committed to the idea that we can empower our future by honoring our past. I can think of no better way to do that than by researching my genealogy and seeing life through my ancestor’s eyes. Tom has asked me why I don’t claim the white part of my ancestry. If you read the story above, I wonder: Would you?

Once my research led me to the GAVIN surname, a door was opened for me to journey to courthouses, cemeteries and farms all over Mississippi. Whenever I go, I do my best to walk consciously in the footsteps our ancestors left behind. I have been all over Africa, the Caribbean and America. I have been to every county in Mississippi where I found the Gavin name. I have spent days poring over books and microfilms in the research hall of the Mississippi Department of Archives and History in Jackson. I have been to what remains of the Gavin family farm in Noxubee County — along the road that still bears their name. I crossed a cow pasture to explore the Gavin graveyard, carrying a machete to cut back weeds and wearing boots to deter snakes. I drove through Gabriel Gavin’s Sandy Land plantation and found a place still known as “The Quarters.” This is, no doubt, the historical location where the slaves (the ancestors whom I proudly claim and honor) lived.

Farther afield, I have walked the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama, where civil rights demonstrators were beaten and incarcerated on “Bloody Sunday” so that my great grandparents could exercise their right to vote. I went to Bryant’s Store in Money, Mississippi to witness where a boy named Emmett Till made a fatal mistake. I visited Tuskegee Institute, where my grand uncle (a child of rape by a white man against a black woman) learned the electrical trade. I stood at “The Forks in the Road,” a slave market at Natchez, Mississippi where my ancestors might have been bought or sold. I have been to Mocambique, where DNA testing said the genes of my ancestor, Bettie Warfe Gavin, were born.

There is a bitter memory associated with almost every location I have visited. Yet, every time I venture forth, I am reminded of a paradox. As bitter as the memories may be, the South is the only homeland most African Americans will ever know. And Africa is a great mystery we may never discern. No matter where we live now, these are the places that, through genealogy, should live forever in our hearts.

There is much we need to know, not only about our ancestors, but about the times in which they lived. A good genealogist is also a good historian. We know that we can’t impose the standards of our modern world on the conditions of the past. Yet, I continue to try and come to terms with the gravity of history that juxtaposes against my own personal family story. I truly want to find a place in my heart where forgiveness resides. It will be obvious from this essay that it ain’t easy.

It is high time that America get over it’s obsession with race. I know that and appreciate the call. In response, I engaged in this “healing journey” that Tom and I are on; hoping to deliver a book that will help show the way for others to reconciliation and peace. It continues to be a journey that is fraught with anguish on my side. I can only hope that I am up to the challenge.

Lawd, help me!

Founder’s Day

a ruminating cow

I spent a lovely day yesterday at the Founder’s Day Street Fair in the town in which I live. I volunteered to man (?) the information booth for the local chamber of commerce. I figured this would be a good way to meet my neighbors and begin to assimilate into the local community.

It was a great experience!

One of things I did as I sat there — waiting for people to stop to get site maps and buy raffle tickets — was to think about culture. What is “culture”? What is “American culture”? How does it express itself in places like this? Who gets to participate? Am I one of “them” or an “outsider”?

I should explain at this point that I moved to this place in 2010 after a lifetime of living in big, cosmopolitan cities. It is a small, rural town on the outskirts of New York City. In its heyday, it was a summer mecca for families hoping to escape the summer heat of the city. It is a place where the sky is blue, the stars twinkle at night and I can hear the sound of a babbling brook in the background after a  big rain — not to mention the whippoorwills that sing in the evening and the rabbits that hop across my lawn in daylight. People here hunt and are very patriotic. They are mostly Republicans. Like everywhere else these days, unemployment is a big problem. Most people work in either health care or prison industries. Oddly, even in the wake of economic distress, most do not farm or have home gardens, which I would expect since we all live on pretty large homesteads. Of the one thousand or so people who live here full time, less than 30 are African American.

When I came here, I was worried about my safety. There are some “sovereigns” roaming around and I was accosted in my early days by a man at the post office who apparently didn’t like my Obama bumper sticker.

Other than that, living here has been a productive experience. As I write my book, the solitude is a blessing. And then, there is my garden, which yields tasty (yes, they DO have a taste) tomatoes, lettuce and other succulent delights.

But back to Founder’s Fest….

At the dunking station manned by the fire department, one of the first comments I heard was “Come on, hit me… you’re throwing like a girl!” Guess this town has a way to go on gender equality

I met the guy who is running for city supervisor. He’s a DEMOCRAT! He said he was not really a politician, but realized that, if things are to get better, somebody has to stand up and try to make a difference. And that was not a black/white thing; it was just citizenship in action. We talked about how people get “the government they deserve.” He was so sincere, I think I’d give him a shot.

There were hot dogs (all American?), Italian ice and calzone at the food booths (a nod to the big Italian population hereabouts). There was also a white guy (ethnicity unknown) slaving over a barbecue grill billed as “Hog Heaven.” The Chinese people who operate the local Chinese restaurant weren’t in evidence, although I saw the East Indian guy who runs the gas station, pushing his kid in a stroller. There was at least one Latino family. I only got to meet two of the African American adults. The six black children I saw were in the company of white people who were obviously not their parents. (Where were their parents?)

The bands did their best to play “down low blues” and jazz…. as well as hard rock (ZZ Top) and hard core (Hank Williams) country. On a couple of occasions, I couldn’t resist tapping my foot.

A person who signed his raffle ticket “USMC” won the VFW raffle. I honor whatever service he is giving and hope it is not in Afghanistan.

I bought a bubble gun for my grandchildren and a plastic slinky… not as good as the old metal ones, but it will do.

My conclusion at the end of the day is that is that there is — definitely — an “American culture.” It is mostly a European culture that does not — and has never — had to consider us minorities, until recently. But that definitely seems to be changing. I can’t fathom comments like the one Michelle Bachmann made recently about “not all cultures are equal.” From my vantage point — today more than at any time in history — our cultures ARE equal. They ALL need to be honored and celebrated — just not to the diminution of others.

I don’t want to be angry at or afraid of white people anymore.

My Daddy Is a Cool Dude

"Big Sister"

In 1969, I was an 18 year old mother with a baby on my hip. Like every other parent, I was determined — in spite of the odds against me — to raise a child who was healthy, both physically and emotionally. I was determined to feed his body with healthy food and to nourish his evolving intellect with stories that reflected our culture. To my dismay, there were virtually no books that heralded the stories and images of black people. We were being maligned in every way and most certainly ignored by the publishing industry.

And then there was a blooming. “Black Power” was in effect. Lucille Clifton, Mari Evans and Nikki Giovanni came into the market with  books written specifically for black children; illustrated with beautiful black images. Giovanni’s Spin A Soft Black Song was the first book I added to my son’s library in 1971.

Inspired by the creativity of fellow writers and the publishing industry’s apparent change of heart, I wrote my own book: My Daddy is a Cool Dude. My husband, an incredibly talented artist, created the illustrations. The book sold well and was nominated for a Caldecott Medal. I only got one bad review — in the New York Times no less.

It’s been a long time since that day in 1975 of my first foray into publishing. There I was, an African American woman — a “ghetto girl” of “dubious distinction” whose voice was not valued or considered — the author of a book that was published to acclaim by a major publishing house (The Dial Press).

Since then, I have authored numerous magazine articles and other short form material, written by a voice longing to be heard. Yet, writing is something I have mostly done on behalf of others. It has generally been hidden behind the names of clients.

I believe I have talent and I have very definite opinions about a lot of things. I have never been reticent about arguing my point of view when I believe something is right.  But this “healing journey” I am on with Tom has challenged some very basic assumptions I hold dear … about race, culture, patrimony — many things I have never been challenged (especially by a white man) to think about. That is because it has always been a fact of life that I am black and that what I think meant little in the vast world of European domination.

Today, I am engaged in process that is difficult and painful. Just like that first book, writing Gather at the Table is an ordeal of conscience. I want to use my ability to express myself in writing… to tell the truth (my truth) … to affect people’s hearts and minds. Because our subject matter is so big and profound, that is a tall order for even the best of writers.

With this book, I am not quite sure how to communicate what I want to say. I am also not so sure about how much I am willing to share about my beliefs and feelings with others. After all, what is written and published will endure in the public domain forever. If I go against the prevailing point of view, I may be ostracized even more than is my historic inheritance.

The one thing I do know is that I can’t change anyone. I can only present what I believe to be true and hope that others will find value in what I say. In the end, people change themselves. On the issue of race and reconciliation, I continue to be intrigued by what inducement is necessary to change the paradigm. I hope we have not gone so far into the abyss of prejudice — my own and that of others — to be beyond redemption.

I have waited 35 years to write another book. I guess it took me this long to realize I have something else important to say. Dare I say it?

Resurrecting Love: The Cemetery That Can Heal a Nation

Sharon and I both love cemeteries. One important aspect of the work we’ve committed ourselves to along our healing journey involves burial grounds. We both turn our heads to check them out when we pass them in our cars. We’ll walk through them and read headstones whether we have relatives buried there or not. Over the past two years we have visited many cemeteries together. We’ve each made exciting discoveries of ancestors in several different states. We even learned that we both have relatives buried–not far from each other–in Oak Woods Cemetery in Chicago, Illinois.

We’ve encountered segregated cemeteries as well as completely separate cemeteries for people of color. Many such cemeteries have long been neglected, forgotten, and even covered over, including some you may have read about in New York City and at Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello. Fortunately, some long-forgotten burial grounds are being either restored or at least respectfully marked.

Love Cemetery is located in Harrison County in East Texas. I learned about it last October when I met China Galland, the author of Love Cemetery: Unburying the Secret History of Slaves. Next up is a film based upon the book and events that have unfolded since the book was published in 2007. From the film’s website:

This is a story of the friendship two women who meet in East Texas, one white, China Galland, whose family moved there in 1900 to raise peaches, and one African American, Doris Vittatoe, whose family was brought there enslaved.

Stories of people trying to heal traumatic wounds from long ago continue to unfold in far-flung places throughout the United States. It’s hard work. It doesn’t always proceed smoothly. Doris and China’s friendship has been sorely tested.

Yet in the words of Dr. King that form the foundation for Coming to the Table, “the sons [and daughters] of former slaves and the sons [and daughters] of former slave owners [are sitting] down together at the table of brotherhood.” It’s a privilege to learn about people who are doing so, and to witness their unfolding. The story of Love Cemetery is one that I will follow closely. You can follow their progress on the film’s website and on Facebook.

Susan Glisson, the director of the William Winter Institute in Mississippi wrote about this story:

If racial justice and reconciliation are to be achieved, they will most certainly begin in the humble but profound relationships shared here.