On the Red Bank

Daddy was born on the Red Bank, a slice of red dirt that formed a soft cliff, on the southside of Asheboro, Randolph County, NC. He was born Oct 30, 1937. There's a story about that, but I will save that for another time. With Daddy, there's always a story behind the story. It can go on and on. But the house on the red bank was called the old Chief's house. Mainly, because there was an old gravestone under a tree not far from where my Dad and his siblings played everyday. I asked my Dad who was buried under the tree near his house. He said, "I dunno."

Perhaps every family has a tale of an old chief somewhere in there. I kind of pushed it to the back of my mind. I look at my Dad with his sandy, red hair and his blue eyes and then I look at his older brother David with his gray eyes and dark wavy hair. My uncle resembles my grandmother with her dark wavy hair and high cheekbones. Lovie Jane Goins was descended from Mollie Hooker c.a. 1871. No one really knew much about her. I found a charcoal portrait of her. She was a prim and proper looking woman with black hair and Asian looking eyes. The paperwork was good, revealing a tidy little family chart with dates and information. She was the daughter of William Clarkson Hooker (1844 1923). William Clarkson Hooker was the grandson of Robin Hooker (b. c.a. 1750) and Rachel Sanders.

He was the illigitimate child of Henly Nixon and Patsy Hooker.

In the Randolph County, North Carolina vertical files was the following information under HOOKER: (and I'm typing this as the record appeared in the file)

December 1 - 15, 1787 Senate Records

The Committee of Propositions . . .to whom the Petition of Johnathan (NATHAN) HOOKER was refered . . .

Repeat. That in the year 1769, John HOOKER, brother of the Petitioner, an infant of twelve years old was forced and carried off to the Musquito Shore in New Spain in America by a Certain Abraham Jennets . . . That the said NATHAN HOOKER . . .of him and Heir apparent to the said John HOOKER, who by wife was possessed of one hundred and eighty acres of land in the County of Tyrel in fee simple -- That the Commissioners of confiscated estates for the District of of Edenton on the . . . day of ... 178...under, and by virtue of the Laws commonly called the Confiscation Laws chosed and sold the aforesaid land at public venue. The said Nathan HOOKER became the purchaser as he believed in Justice the land was not confiscated and that consideration together with the information of . . all the aforesaid comments by whom the said tale was made, that the bond of the said purchaser Nathan HOOKER is not owed or payable until January next, are of opinion that the aforesaid lands were not subject to confiscation, therefore, resolved that the said Commissioners cancel the said bond and the the Comptroller credit his account accordingly.

John L JOHNSTON

North Carolina

In Senate 1787, The foregoing report being read was concurred with signatures

So as my father and I dig deeper into my grandmother's people, I wonder what adventures they faced. What life did young John HOOKER face on the Mosquito Coast? Is he related to our Mollie HOOKER? I understand the original of this document is now in the Randolph Room at the Asheboro, Public Library. I hope to receive a copy soon.

And someday, my father and I will have to climb up on the red bank. I will have to ask him if the house where he was born still stands. Perhaps we will find a single grave under a tree, if no one has disturbed it after all these years. Maybe it is the old chief. Or maybe it's Mollie's grandfather, waiting for someone to come back home.

Ten Thousand Flowers

Ten thousand flowers in spring,
the moon in autumn
a cool breeze in summer,
snow in winter,
If your mind isn't crowded by
unnecessary things,
this is the best season of your life

--Wu-Men 365 Prayers, Blessings and Life Affirmations to Celebrate the Human Journey From Around the World: 1996 HarperCollins, San Francisco.


Life in general makes it difficult to not "crowd the mind with unnecessary things." There is clutter everywhere: Messages bombarding us, telling us what to buy; what to do; how we should think; what we should ask our doctors about. We have songs screaming in our ears what we should love and what we should hate; what we should think and perhaps not think at all. But inevitably, most of us find several moments of solitude - moments to actually think for ourselves. And in those moments when we have command of our presiding thoughts, I hope for triumph - as we are the best champions of our own causes. I hope others respect those moments of free will as we challenge our soul and choose our own roads without accomplices. For our journeys are ours to walk, and may they be blessed as the best seasons of our lives.

So Many Trails, So Little Time

"I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey work of the stars, And the pismire is equally perfect, and a grain of sand, and the egg of the wren, And the tree-toad is a chef-d'oeuvre for the highest, And the running blackberry would adorn the parlors of heaven . . . " Song of Myself --Walt Whitman

While meandering along a wilderness trail in the Great Smoky Mountains, I came upon a stone chimney, jutting out of the green forest. Someone once lived there among the trees with the cool, clear creek not far beyond.

How very beautiful these woods are. There is a peacefulness that touches me to the soul. The people who lived here experienced their own trials and tribulations, but the forest also provided lessons of grace, wisdom and common sense.

My father tells me stories of the woods. When I was but a child, he would led me through the trails, winding carefully through the pine trees. He reminded me to walk softly and try not to make disturbances. He also reminded me to listen carefully, for there are things human ears can miss when our minds are not on the path.

I think one of the most important things I learned about the trails, is to watch for animal droppings. A bear can leave a most unpleasant sign, but it was easy to see and even easier to avoid. So just recently I thought, "If a bear craps in the woods, do we HAVE to step in it?" There are some people crapping in the Redbone woods right now. I think it's best to sidestep their mess and keep ourselves clean. There are so many trails that need to be explored and such precious little time to accomplish them all. But that is just one lesson from the woods that has been passed down from father to daughter. It is an important lesson, however and it serves me well whether I am hiking a trail in the wilderness or rushing to work in the big city.

I bought new hiking boots a month ago. They have thick soles and built in support for my ankles and the arch of my feet. I'm prepared to press on, no matter how long the journey may be.

Them's fight'n Words

There are some phrases that seem to be passed from generation to generation. I think I can identify certain periods in my family history when an ancestor or kinfolk took a dislike to notions or actions of the day and they uttered the phrase, "Now, them's fight' words!"

I can say with relative confidence that in the mid 1770's, William and Edward Goings (kin somehow, but I don't know yet, but both of them my 7th generation great grandfathers) were rather frustrated with Britain's way of ruling the continent. They joined up in the Continental Army, more than willing to fight for the right of self government. If anyone tried to tell them how much tax to pay, or who could be married and who couldn't or who could own land and who couldn't they just polished their squirrel guns and said "Them's fightin' words!"

There's been members of the Moore County, Pocket Creek Goinses in every war since then - War of 1812, , The United States Civil War, the Spanish American War and on forward.

In the 1930's, life was difficult in rural North Carolina as well as other rural areas, especially for mixed-blood families who lived on the fringes of society, ostracized and discriminated against by dominant society members. Food was scarce, but family is family and you'd think that fight'n words would not show up at the dinner table. But my great Aunt Norvie told the story about the day when her son and a cousin sat at the table, eating purt good, but only one biscuit remained on the platter and Wilbert Yow grabbed it up causing an onslaught of fightin' words. The cousin took offense, believing he (being older and all) was entitled to the last biscuit, and he shot the 15 year old Wilbert to death on January 8, 1933 at the dinner table. (Aunt Norvie pictured to the right in 1990)

Uncle David Eugene Goins (pictured upper left) has heard and said plenty of fightin' words. Most of the time in Asheboro, North Carolina, he was called a d*mned ole Croatan Indian. Many citizens took offense when he started courtin' one of the most beautiful white girls in the school. He took plenty of beatings - giving back as hard as others gave it to him, but he married that sweet little Arlene Roberts (Collins descendent) and they had a beautiful family. It was not easy, fighting for the right to love whomever you wanted, but if anyone had anything to say about it, well, those were usually fightin' words.

And sometimes fightin' words took on different meanings. I recall that they could be used in jest between family members. And there were encouragements to fight within the community. My father (pictured left with his brother David) recalls a time when he was enticed to fight for a cash prize. It was at the Randolph county Fair in the 1940's, and he donned leather fighting gloves, more than willing to fight his opponent to a bloody pulp and bring home some much needed food money.

He stepped in the cage and unexpectedly charged his opponent, only to stumble forward as his challenger deftly jumped up in the air and eluded him. So my father tried again, knowing that he had to be one of the fastest runners in the county. He charged once more only to miss his opponent once more. Before he could bring himself fully off the ground, the ape jumped on my father's scrawny shoulders and started pummeling him with his boxing gloves until my father begged to be released from the cage. He staggered home black and blue on the inside and the outside, but he earned a few shiny coins for staying in as long as he did. But that was the Goins inside of him and money, food and the right to fight were worth fightin' for.

The Screen Door Unlocked

Dedicated to the memory of Ervin and Lovie Jane Goins.

There was a time when the screen door was always unlocked.

My father remembers sitting in the family living room while on leave from the US Marine Corps, talking to Grandma and Grandpa. The door swung wide open and a group of young hellions raced through the living room. Grandpa grinned at the youthful energy and Daddy asked, "Who are those young-uns?"

"Haven't any idee," Grandpa said, but no one was going to chase them off. The door was always open.

After experiencing centuries of ostracism from mainstream society, my family learned something -- a fundamental truth which is still part of the fabric of their descendents. We need each other. That door is always open.

That is why I was shocked to the core when I read an outburst laced with profanity, "we don't need them." Where did this come from? That has not been our family way --this is NOT the legacy bequeathed to us from those who walked the green valleys with hearts as big as the moon and smiles as bright as the sun.

Despite the troubled past, our families never shut each other out. I can't remember my grandparents shutting even a stranger out. It wasn't our way.

I once asked one of my grandmothers why our people were so despised and she told me not to use that word, for hatred is not our way. I will repeat her words as often as I can as a gentle reminder.

What has happened to us?

My Blood Tells Me So

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.