It wasn’t easy growing up so far away from close family. All of my mother’s siblings and her parents lived below the Mason-Dixon line. We’d do our best to stay in touch between the long car rides or flights that brought us closer. But it wasn’t anywhere near the same as living close to them, the way most of my aunts and uncles did in their interconnected and tight-knit community. Over the years, the wires of our old wall-mounted phone became the lifeline, the thread that connected us across the miles, squeezing together the lagging years during calls when my Grandma would ask, “How y’all doin’?” and we would say, “Fine.” Always fine, even if it wasn’t… Fine because you can’t tell your grandma that your family’s falling apart, your dad’s moved out and your mom is falling apart and you’re doing all of the cooking and caring for your little sister, when you’re only eleven. How do you put that into words? So I just learned to say “I’m fine…” Fine like her silky threaded hair, always neat and stylish and sometimes styled by me. I loved the feel of her freshly-washed locks that I would smooth and comb over forgotten summers.
“Lay it to the side.” I’m around ten, standing behind my grandmother’s chair, combing and parting her hair as she gives me directions.
“Okay, Grandma. Like this?” She nods. It’s our little ritual: her, in the chair, sitting and talking as we watch TV and chat in her living room, family all around; me, oiling and styling her mix of grays and black strands on top. I’m what they call tender-headed myself, but Grandma’s not. She enjoys letting me play in her salt-and-pepper strands. Her hair is smooth and straight, thanks to the dark gold hot comb she uses on the gas kitchen stove every Saturday. And I love it here, in this house, this small town, where everybody knows your business and your name. Grandma’s getting a little sleepy now, but we’re not done yet.
“Catch it up good, Baby.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I’m rolling it now. I wrap her sectioned off tresses with end papers and soft plastic rollers with spongy inserts. They’re mostly pink, but every now and then she’ll pass me a charcoal-colored one, and I’ll notice her long fingers on tender aging hands that are not far off from the charcoal. (Those hands served her well. She played some serious basketball back in her day.) We’re on a roll now. She hands me each roller just as I finish with the last. Those are the little moments that I cherish and miss the most. 97 years was not enough. I miss the twinkle in her eyes, both awash with pride and wisdom, as she looks up at me when I’m done styling.
I can see Africa in my Grandma’s face: her skin, so rich and deep, reminiscent of the surface of the midnight sea. And her ancestry that runs as deep.
We used to run through the fields down in Blenheim, chased by the heat of the hazy Carolina sky. All girls, just us four–my sis and two girl cousins. The wheat and weeds surrounded us, reaching high above our young shoulders, trampled crabgrass underfoot, carving a path between my aunt’s house and others that were scattered between crops. We were like budding sunflowers, little nomads following the sun–strong yet powerless against a life that tried to cut us down. Only two of those sunflowers survived. And that house, those fields are empty now, just like the family that I used to visit there.
But there was something about those fields. Maybe they reminded me that while Jersey was where I lived, South Carolina, my birthplace, would always feel like home. The freedom of running and laughing carefree, not being bound by time or school bells. Summers there were fun but fleeting, like strips of memory and angst, papier mâchéted onto our fragile family tree. And we were all so close back then, not like now, after time and miles and life got away from us.
We cousins–boys and girls, the lot of us–we loved to camp out, spending nights together at their ranch-style sprawling homes that were different from ours in New Jersey: no second floors, no basements, but plenty of space to roam around and explore. Some front yards as big as backyards, fields of snap peas, wheat and watermelon as far as the eye could squint through the sunlight to see. Dark nights with narrow country roads that only offered high beams for light.
But the best thing about those Carolina summers, next to family, was the food: Grandma’s airy hand-formed biscuits, like manna, best with butter and molasses or grape jelly; her trademark tea cakes, a perfect fit for a child’s small hand, with touches of fresh pecans shaken from Aunt Madie’s tree. Fresh field peas, snapped on the porch right near the bypass in Bennettsville as we sat on the rocking couch before sunset, Grandma and I. Everything was fresh, much of it from my Granddaddy’s local garden or from the watermelon truck man from down the street.
Those flashes of memory, those delicate papered strips, remind me of my own fragile roots. They also remind me that our roots are in our hair, like my grandmother’s salt-and-pepper tresses, as much as they are in our features or complexion or stature. My grandmother’s roots connect us all, and I guess that’s why I always loved playing in her hair so much.
“Do you want me to use the Dippity ‘Do, Grandma?” I ask this time, wondering if the clear gel will be too heavy for her hair. It gives nice curls, but sometimes they’re too tight.. I’m parting her hair into neat squares as I get ready to use the rollers.
“Mmm–hmm, that’s fine.” My grandma has a deep southern accent that’s not exactly a drawl, but a little heavier than her childrens’, including my mom who’s lived in the North for most of her life now but never lost her Carolina twang.
There’s something about the roots of our hair. You can straighten them, dye them and even pluck out the grays, but you can’t deny them. They keep growing in new, texture and all, reminding us of where and who we come from.
I can see Africa in my Grandma’s face: the home of her great-grandparents, the dream of her grandparents, especially her grandmother, the first in this American generation born free. Most people thought my grandmother favored her father, my Grandaddy Greg. They were both tall with rich dark chocolate skin, and they had the same small-but-bright eyes that crinkled when they smiled. And my grandfather was the closest thing we had to a family historian.
“Now, listen here…” he would begin. And my sister and I would sit quietly, sometimes anxiously, at his feet. We enjoyed his stories, and there was always something important to listen to within his tales of a rich and winding family tree. When I think about it now, I see the genius of it all. He didn’t want us to get too far from our roots, from the rich Carolina soil that had raised crops and supported houses and so many dreams. Even though we lived hundreds of miles away, he wanted us to know that we belonged to the same land and the small wooden home that he had built.
“Now that was your great-great grandmother.” My Granddaddy Greg would sit proudly in his wheelchair when we visited during my elementary and middle school years, sharing names and lineage, extolling the days of his youth and the relatives that had been a part of them. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized how far back in time my grandfather took us. He died at 90 years old in the late ‘70s, which means he had to have been born in the 1800s, the 19th century. That blows my mind today. My great-grandfather was the personification of our past; he was walking and talking history in his day, even after he could no longer physically walk. I treasure those visits and the time he took with us. His voice was gritty, sometimes weak with age, and he liked his snuff, but he wanted us to know who we were, where we’d been and what great stock we had come from. I think we sometimes forget that our elders are the gatekeepers of history.
Cousins. We are the eyes and ears, the hopes of our late grandparents who did so much with so little. We are the bounty, the dividend of their sacrifice. And that makes me grateful for what they provided and even what they couldn’t. We are the thread that ties their generation to the next: our history, our struggles, our Africanness and values. Each generation holds the promise of the past, and we are all part of someone’s legacy. But we don’t always appreciate our ancestors while they’re here among us. I can see the fissures and gaps in my family tree even today. And every now and then, the papier mâchéte lifts and peels from the tree, and someone’s story is lost. Some of that history may be painful, hurtful or worse, but it still holds value. Only in knowing ourselves can we repair it.
I can see Africa in my Grandma’s face: I can trace the generations in every fold of her eyelids, every line beside her dark twilight eyes, the strong bones that form the shape of her deep and darkest brown cheeks…in every word she begins to form with sculptured African-yet-American lips…
I can see Africa from here.
************
Are you a Black woman writer? We’re looking for short stories and personal essays to feature on our digital and print platforms. Click HERE to find out how to submit.
