Earlier I wrote about the Goins DNA project. Instead of solving some parts of my cultural puzzle, the DNA results seemed to throw about a thousand more pieces into the mix.
But there are some important things to discover when looking at the cultural map of who we are. I don't think I ever realized how old DNA is. I think of me possessing some of the influences of my immediate family members, my grandparents and perhaps even my great grandparents, but DNA is DEEP. I mean thousands of years deep. When I survey the results I expected to find, such as predominately Scottish, Irish and British, I see ancient little markers, popping up for Native Siberian, Yemen, Polynesian and Greek.
When I casually say one of my favorite lines, My ancestors lived and loved so I can be here today (not that that is what they had in mind, but it is one way I think about their lives and how they contributed to my existence), I now go beyond my traditional pattern of generations. I think of the clans crossing the Bering Straits, seeking a place where they could thrive. They are no longer nameless individuals - dust on the pages of some old history tome, but now they are like a memory because I recognize that one of my own ancestors was there. My blood tells me so. I think of the Polynesians and the Vikings - not that I would ever have assumed them connected. But they are connected somehow in my blood. And when I think of all of the mixtures of history and heritage within me, I wonder, aren't you the same as I? At one time, did our ancestors meet and walk a ways on the journey together? Did they meet in battle over limited resources? No matter what has happened throughout history, there is one thing that can't separate any of us. Our ancestors lived and loved, yes. But they also survived. With that thought in mind, It Is Still Good To Be Here.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Mixed Heritage Clues from Grave Markers
Tracking down African-American, Native American or racially mixed ancestors can be difficult, especially when these family members often were oppressed and segregated in society. The segregation did not end with churches, schools and neighborhoods. Even the final resting places of these ancestors were separate and sometimes obscure.
A few years ago, my father and I decided to go on a field trip to visit the places where my ancestors lived. We had accumulated information from census records and vital statistics and thought I understood quite a bit about our family and how they lived. When we actually visited the township they lived in, I was in for a surprise.
I knew my great-great grandfather was buried in Grant Township, also called Grantville, in Randolph County, North Carolina. When my father and I finally located the grave of my ancestor, it raised hundreds of more questions. He was buried in a small, grassy area near the side of the road. Up on the hill, directly above his final resting place, was a beautiful church dating back to the early 1800’s with a magnificent cemetery. The cemetery contained thousands of graves, but why wasn’t my ancestor buried among them?
Then a local woman told us, “He was too dark to be buried up there.” Since our ancestor, Abraham Wellington “Bud” Goins, died in 1884, there were no vital records that indicated that he was a person of color. The race category on the census records was recorded upon the discretion of the enumerator who would look at the person and check the category he thought the individual should be labeled as. One enumerator may believe he is taking information from a mulatto. Another enumerator may label him as an Anglo-white. The information varied, but when it came down to the final resting place, the people in the community knew that Abraham Wellington Goins was not white.
Family members tended to the grave and Goins’ daughter, Norvie Jane, placed a traditional headstone on the grave to mark it. The prominence of the marker bespoke of the homage reserved for a beloved patriarch of the family. Surrounding the marker, there were at least four other small, unmarked markers. Judging from the small size, they may indicate the final resting place of children or perhaps female members of the family. No one will know for sure.
Another clue in finding mixed ethnic relations may be in the footstones. Again, when looking for my family members, I could not locate them in neat churchyards. The field trip involved excursions deep into woods. On one occasion, I photographed a footstone of a family member who had a traditional marker with her name and dates, but the footstone possessed an interesting etching of a human body being supported by vertical lines. Not understanding this, we showed the photograph to a gravedigger in the area who proved to be most helpful. “That picture indicates that she was buried upright,” he said. It was a common practice of the Native American peoples in the area to bury their deceased standing up.
A few years ago, my father and I decided to go on a field trip to visit the places where my ancestors lived. We had accumulated information from census records and vital statistics and thought I understood quite a bit about our family and how they lived. When we actually visited the township they lived in, I was in for a surprise.
I knew my great-great grandfather was buried in Grant Township, also called Grantville, in Randolph County, North Carolina. When my father and I finally located the grave of my ancestor, it raised hundreds of more questions. He was buried in a small, grassy area near the side of the road. Up on the hill, directly above his final resting place, was a beautiful church dating back to the early 1800’s with a magnificent cemetery. The cemetery contained thousands of graves, but why wasn’t my ancestor buried among them?
Then a local woman told us, “He was too dark to be buried up there.” Since our ancestor, Abraham Wellington “Bud” Goins, died in 1884, there were no vital records that indicated that he was a person of color. The race category on the census records was recorded upon the discretion of the enumerator who would look at the person and check the category he thought the individual should be labeled as. One enumerator may believe he is taking information from a mulatto. Another enumerator may label him as an Anglo-white. The information varied, but when it came down to the final resting place, the people in the community knew that Abraham Wellington Goins was not white.
Family members tended to the grave and Goins’ daughter, Norvie Jane, placed a traditional headstone on the grave to mark it. The prominence of the marker bespoke of the homage reserved for a beloved patriarch of the family. Surrounding the marker, there were at least four other small, unmarked markers. Judging from the small size, they may indicate the final resting place of children or perhaps female members of the family. No one will know for sure.
Another clue in finding mixed ethnic relations may be in the footstones. Again, when looking for my family members, I could not locate them in neat churchyards. The field trip involved excursions deep into woods. On one occasion, I photographed a footstone of a family member who had a traditional marker with her name and dates, but the footstone possessed an interesting etching of a human body being supported by vertical lines. Not understanding this, we showed the photograph to a gravedigger in the area who proved to be most helpful. “That picture indicates that she was buried upright,” he said. It was a common practice of the Native American peoples in the area to bury their deceased standing up.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Memories Taste So Good
Today is my grandmother's birthday. She would have been 92 years old. I like to think upon the things that she gifted me with. Her faith and her love for family are just a couple qualities on a very long list.
So when a special day rolls around, I try to do one thing in remembrance of her -- something that keeps her traditions alive. Today, I mulled over what to do. It was a beautiful day and I could have gone out and worked in my yard - something my grandparents did practically every morning. Yeah, I should have done that for I believe that their gardening is one of the things that kept them healthy for so very long. It was a pleasurable type of exercise for them, and they did take great pleasure from the beautiful things they grew together.
Yet, I was stuck inside most of the day with projects and commitments, so at 8:00 p.m. I was determined not to let the day pass without doing something the way my grandmother would have done.
Spying some dried apricots, I soaked them in water. Then I hastily made a homemade pie crust. After years of making homemade pies, I no longer have to reach for a recipe card. My hands worked methodically, sifting flour, adding crisco, a pinch of salt, a little water and then kneading it all into a soft dough.
I rolled the dough out, thin and even, trimming the sides and was happy to note that it had taken me less than 6 minutes to make the dough from scratch and get it ready for the filling.
After soaking the apricots I placed them in a saucepan with a sliver of butter. I added sugar and some instant tapioca (about a Tablespoon I would guess) I really don't know how much, I just tossed some in. Then I added a little rum (don't know if Granny did that, but I think she would have approved) some cinnamon and nutmeg and heated the mixture until it was bubbly. After cooling the filling slightly, I poured the apricot mixture into two small circles, saving some of the spiced juices. I folded the small circles over to make a turnover and glazed the dough with the remaining spiced juice and fried the little four inch pies up. Oh my goodness. Memories can taste so good.
So when a special day rolls around, I try to do one thing in remembrance of her -- something that keeps her traditions alive. Today, I mulled over what to do. It was a beautiful day and I could have gone out and worked in my yard - something my grandparents did practically every morning. Yeah, I should have done that for I believe that their gardening is one of the things that kept them healthy for so very long. It was a pleasurable type of exercise for them, and they did take great pleasure from the beautiful things they grew together.
Yet, I was stuck inside most of the day with projects and commitments, so at 8:00 p.m. I was determined not to let the day pass without doing something the way my grandmother would have done.
Spying some dried apricots, I soaked them in water. Then I hastily made a homemade pie crust. After years of making homemade pies, I no longer have to reach for a recipe card. My hands worked methodically, sifting flour, adding crisco, a pinch of salt, a little water and then kneading it all into a soft dough.
I rolled the dough out, thin and even, trimming the sides and was happy to note that it had taken me less than 6 minutes to make the dough from scratch and get it ready for the filling.
After soaking the apricots I placed them in a saucepan with a sliver of butter. I added sugar and some instant tapioca (about a Tablespoon I would guess) I really don't know how much, I just tossed some in. Then I added a little rum (don't know if Granny did that, but I think she would have approved) some cinnamon and nutmeg and heated the mixture until it was bubbly. After cooling the filling slightly, I poured the apricot mixture into two small circles, saving some of the spiced juices. I folded the small circles over to make a turnover and glazed the dough with the remaining spiced juice and fried the little four inch pies up. Oh my goodness. Memories can taste so good.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Redbone Culture
I have had the opportunity to attend several cultural conventions, the most recent being the Redbone Heritage Convention in Natchitoches, Louisiana. Inevitably, someone will ask me, "What is a Redbone, or a Melungeon, or a Brass Ankle or a Delaware Moore?" I usually struggle with the answer because I have yet to come up with a tidy definition that encompasses the complexity and diversity of the groups who have been labeled such over the past few centuries.
I can tell people what I know, however. These are old families, most arriving here in the early Colonial period. Their patriarchs were militia men in the French-Indian War and the Revolutionary War, fighting for freedom from tyranny. Most have a proud heritage of military service which includes branches of family serving whenever their country called. Their families explored and settled the wilderness territories, often being the first settlers in new lands. They intermarried with Natives and worked side by side with Free persons of color, because color lines were not a consideration when it came down to survival. Everyone, no matter what their race or ethnicity during those times, was a vital economic unit. They are the example of the American "melting Pot" theory, which began at the very beginning of American history.
Over the years, I know that the descendents of these mixed peoples were labeled Redbone, Melungeon, Mulatto and others, and were once the target of discrimination and prejudices of the times they lived in. Rather than dwell in towns were they would be constantly reminded of their inferiority, they often chose to remain on the outskirts of civilization - living among themselves and seeking others like them for companionship. The truth of those times were that a person was White or something else that didn't matter.
As society advanced in history, they prayed that the color lines that defined whether a person was countable or not, would diminish. The offensive intermingling of races which was a brand of dishonor in early days caused many of our elders to be tight-lipped about our ancestry, still feeling the sting from years of social intolerance.
Yet, their descendents are not afraid of the answers that our elders hide. We embrace our mixed lineages as being truly American, whether our charts show Portuguese, Egyptian, Native American, Western European, Sub-Saharan or any other influences, we know one thing for sure. All of our ancestors lived and died to make us who we are today. They shaped American society with their diversity and risked their lives to carry forward the ideals of equality, justice and fairness in society. For the Goinses, the Gibsons, the Bunches, the Ashworths, the Perkins, the Nashes and all the other related mixed-lineage families, descendents no longer try to hide the family histories and traditions. Instead, with the help of the heritage foundations, we explore, research and preserve the cultures that have been suppressed in the past. We honor those who have walked before us, for they should not be forgotten.
I can tell people what I know, however. These are old families, most arriving here in the early Colonial period. Their patriarchs were militia men in the French-Indian War and the Revolutionary War, fighting for freedom from tyranny. Most have a proud heritage of military service which includes branches of family serving whenever their country called. Their families explored and settled the wilderness territories, often being the first settlers in new lands. They intermarried with Natives and worked side by side with Free persons of color, because color lines were not a consideration when it came down to survival. Everyone, no matter what their race or ethnicity during those times, was a vital economic unit. They are the example of the American "melting Pot" theory, which began at the very beginning of American history.
Over the years, I know that the descendents of these mixed peoples were labeled Redbone, Melungeon, Mulatto and others, and were once the target of discrimination and prejudices of the times they lived in. Rather than dwell in towns were they would be constantly reminded of their inferiority, they often chose to remain on the outskirts of civilization - living among themselves and seeking others like them for companionship. The truth of those times were that a person was White or something else that didn't matter.
As society advanced in history, they prayed that the color lines that defined whether a person was countable or not, would diminish. The offensive intermingling of races which was a brand of dishonor in early days caused many of our elders to be tight-lipped about our ancestry, still feeling the sting from years of social intolerance.
Yet, their descendents are not afraid of the answers that our elders hide. We embrace our mixed lineages as being truly American, whether our charts show Portuguese, Egyptian, Native American, Western European, Sub-Saharan or any other influences, we know one thing for sure. All of our ancestors lived and died to make us who we are today. They shaped American society with their diversity and risked their lives to carry forward the ideals of equality, justice and fairness in society. For the Goinses, the Gibsons, the Bunches, the Ashworths, the Perkins, the Nashes and all the other related mixed-lineage families, descendents no longer try to hide the family histories and traditions. Instead, with the help of the heritage foundations, we explore, research and preserve the cultures that have been suppressed in the past. We honor those who have walked before us, for they should not be forgotten.
Monday, September 18, 2006
It's Still Good To Be Here
Monday, September 18, 2006
After spending the weekend in Natchitoches, Louisiana with "cousins" from all over the United States, I rejoiced in knowing that are all working on a common goal - to honor our ancestors by remembering them and in turn, to learn more about ourselves.
I think Natchitoches is a beautiful place. Ronnie and I dined on the Cane River, walking up and down the quaint street which is one of the oldest towns in Louisiana. Cajun waltzes drifted from the buildings and a horse drawn carriage carried passerby's down main street, not worried about mid-day traffic.
But the reason we were drawn to Natchitoches was the Redbone Heritage Conference which was a celebration within itself. Gathered together were descendents of families who have consistently been called called Redbones, Melungeons, isolates, Moors, mulattoes and probably a few things that I can't mention. Yet, the family members who gathered together, despite the regional diversity, despite their differences in religion, customs or philosophies, had one goal in common. That goal was to send a message that the different cultures and ethnicities that make up our country are beautiful. By embracing our multi-ethnic heritage, instead of allowing others to try to diminish our culture, we spread a powerful sentiment that "different" is beautiful also.
The history of our country is a quilt, a large work of art containing multitudes of peoples with their lives as the foundation of who we have become today. As any precious artifact, the fabric of our nation needs to be celebrated for its diversity.
After spending the weekend in Natchitoches, Louisiana with "cousins" from all over the United States, I rejoiced in knowing that are all working on a common goal - to honor our ancestors by remembering them and in turn, to learn more about ourselves.
I think Natchitoches is a beautiful place. Ronnie and I dined on the Cane River, walking up and down the quaint street which is one of the oldest towns in Louisiana. Cajun waltzes drifted from the buildings and a horse drawn carriage carried passerby's down main street, not worried about mid-day traffic.
But the reason we were drawn to Natchitoches was the Redbone Heritage Conference which was a celebration within itself. Gathered together were descendents of families who have consistently been called called Redbones, Melungeons, isolates, Moors, mulattoes and probably a few things that I can't mention. Yet, the family members who gathered together, despite the regional diversity, despite their differences in religion, customs or philosophies, had one goal in common. That goal was to send a message that the different cultures and ethnicities that make up our country are beautiful. By embracing our multi-ethnic heritage, instead of allowing others to try to diminish our culture, we spread a powerful sentiment that "different" is beautiful also.
The history of our country is a quilt, a large work of art containing multitudes of peoples with their lives as the foundation of who we have become today. As any precious artifact, the fabric of our nation needs to be celebrated for its diversity.
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