Me and my grandparents J.C. and Savannah Barrow sometime during the late 1960s
Gino Vannelli, Grammy winner from the 70s, ex-sex symbol, and musical chameleon,and one of my long time favorite singers wrote a song called The People I Belong To on his album Brother to Brother. The song talked about the people in his life and their backgrounds. The people I belong to and who influenced me the most, outside of my parents, were my maternal grandparents J.C. and Savannah Barrow.
Granddaddy died in 1987 before the advent of the internet. When grandma died in 2005 at age 93, she did not even know what the internet was. Now we have the first African-American president which the internet had an integral in contributing to his win. I wonder what my grandparents would have thought if they had lived to see the day. I am sure that they would have been ecstatic and overwhelmed with pride and happiness.
Granddaddy would have probably wept more easily about it than grandma. I have inherited this tendency to weep at the drop of a hat. Like Barack Obama, my grandfather was biracial. His parents, however, were never married. They could have not have even they had wanted to in those days almost a century ago. Blacks and whites could not be legally married in most places in America until the late 1960s. The case of Loving vs. Virginia ended legal restrictions on who people could marry according to race.
My great grandmother never spoke a word to my grandfather about who his biological father was. My grandfather accepted his stepfather as his real father. He knew no other. His mother’s other children were fathered by the man my granddaddy accepted as his real father.
I used to wonder how it must have been for my grandfather being the odd one with white skin and white features in a family where everyone else was dark. My grandfather saw himself as completely black though. He never questioned his origins, because in America at that time and even now, though people do not really discuss it openly, a person as they used to say with one percent of “black blood” is really a black person. The feelings are still there in more conservative sectors of the society and with many of the older generation. That is why Barack Obama did not win by a landslide in these troubled times, but win he did.
My grandfather was later told by some white acquaintances that he was their cousin. They said they knew of the man who was his father. When they told him, my great grandmother had been dead for quite sometime.
My grandfather was told that his father’s surname was Ellis. My grandfather was given the surname Barrow because that was his stepfather’s name. Mr. Ellis, as I will call him here, was a married man. Whether it was rape or a love affair between him and my grandmother is unknown. The truth died with them both, since my grandfather’s white cousins did not give him any details as to the nature of the relationship. My family assumes the relationship was not consensual. The reason we have this assumption is because of the nature of black-white relations throughout slavery and through post-Civil War times. Most interracial couples in America today are black males and white females. In the times before my grandparents and after, the mixing of the races was only between white men and black women, the relationship of slave and master. After the Civil War, with slavery over, these elicit relationships continued with some black women who were domestic servants or who willingly or unwillingly caught the eye of some white man. I remember what my father used to say about such relationships. “Those women’s minds were raped along with their bodies. They felt they had no choice but to give in.” Still today, it is very difficult for most black women in America to see themselves dating or marrying a white man because of our history, family, and community pressure sometimes even more so than overall societal pressure.
In the end, whatever was between my great grandparents, it was not long lasting. My great grandfather was already married. He was a white man in the south over 80 years ago, and my great grandmother Janie (everyone called her Ma Jane) was black. There was no future even if they had wanted one. When my great grandfather found out that my great grandmother was pregnant, he took his wife and fled the county, never to return. Ma Jane went on to marry a black man, have a large family, and to never look back. Nevertheless, I am sure the scars and shame was there until the day she died nearly 40 years ago. I used to see her when I was a girl. She was a relic of the 19th century with her ankle boots and long dresses and skirts. She liked to talk a great deal and complain about how bad she felt. She was afraid of thunderstorms. I was also fearful of them even on up until I was in my 20s. We carry the traits of our parents and grandparents willingly against our will. They put their marks on our lives. They are with us even when they are gone out of existence.
My grandmother grew up to her teenage years with both of her biological parents. Her father was named Garnett, and her mother was Matilde. Grandmother once described her parents to me as thus. Her father was a tall dark skinned man, while her mother was a short light skinned woman with Indian (Native American) ancestry. My grandmother came out a combination of her parents: dark complexioned and short. When they were in their early 50s both of my grandmother’s parents died within a year of each other. They had both developed what was called dropsy. My grandmother and some of her brothers and sisters, who were not old enough to take care of themselves, went to live with an aunt.
My grandmother married late for the era she came in. She told me that she was close to 30 when she accepted my grandfather’s proposal of marriage. She had already been proposed to before by another man who had light skin and was of mixed background like my grandfather. This man would continue to be her friend throughout the years, dropping by to see my grandparents. In fact, my grandfather had courted this man’s future wife before he fell in love with my grandmother. They switched partners.
My grandparents had a large family. They worked hard to take care of their family. They picked cotton. My grandmother did domestic work for years until her last employer who was elderly like her was finally put in a nursing home. My grandfather was a carpenter. Granddaddy was illiterate. He only went to school one day. He hated it so much that he never returned. The most he learned in the education arena was to write his signature. On the other hand, my grandmother did go as far as she could in school in her era for a black woman in the south. She made it as far as the sixth grade. In her final years her favorite television show was Wheel of Fortune. She loved trying to guess some of the words.
My grandparents were highly generous and religious people. If you visited them, their home became your home. Their generosity and hospitality reminds me very much of Turkish people. If there was something in my grandparent’s house that you admired, grandma would be quick to say, “You like it? You can have it.” A number of children would have gone hungry if my grandparents had not taken them in after school and sometimes over night to feed them. Though grandparents were certainly not rich, they did not have to go without. Their generosity and kindness bred the same in others, so people were always giving them things. My grandparent’s kitchen, refrigerator, and large vegetable garden were open to all. Whites and blacks regularly dropped by. Color was never an issue for my grandparents.
Granddaddy was the quiet type. When he spoke, it was usually words of wisdom. Grandma was the opposite, lively and with a wonderful ability to not take herself seriously. She would make jokes about herself calling herself, “ugly.” Granddaddy would mumble, “Popie (that was one of her nicknames) was pretty.”
My mother used to tell me wonderful stories about her childhood with my grandparents. Grandfather not only did not know who his father was, but he was not even sure of the year when he was born. He and grandma always said he was born about 1917. Grandma knew when she was born, 1912.
My grandparents were married for 49 years. They were years of happiness, hardship, courage, and tragedy. They both lived to bury two of their own children. My mother is the eldest of all her siblings now, but there was one before her, a boy who died about 1943. My grandparents lost their eldest child to a kidney disease when he was only six. Another son who was strikingly handsome died at age 24 in a car crash. He had only been married for a few months and had a baby on the way. In 2005, my grandmother who was still alive but dying lost a third child. The family never told her that one of her son’s had cancer. She was such a worrier and ill that it was decided by the family not at add to her burden. In fact, my grandmother and uncle were both diagnosed with cancer in 2005. My grandmother had colon cancer at 93. My uncle Willie, or W.B. as everyone called him had sarcoma at age 63. My uncle died on December 26, and grandma died the next day. None of us had the courage to tell her that her son had died in his home with his family around him. The day before grandma died, we visited her in the hospital, and she was extremely lively, telling my aunt to find chairs for everyone. The next morning, my aunt called my mom and told her, “She’s gone too.”
Granddaddy died in 1987 before the advent of the internet. When grandma died in 2005 at age 93, she did not even know what the internet was. Now we have the first African-American president which the internet had an integral in contributing to his win. I wonder what my grandparents would have thought if they had lived to see the day. I am sure that they would have been ecstatic and overwhelmed with pride and happiness.
Granddaddy would have probably wept more easily about it than grandma. I have inherited this tendency to weep at the drop of a hat. Like Barack Obama, my grandfather was biracial. His parents, however, were never married. They could have not have even they had wanted to in those days almost a century ago. Blacks and whites could not be legally married in most places in America until the late 1960s. The case of Loving vs. Virginia ended legal restrictions on who people could marry according to race.
My great grandmother never spoke a word to my grandfather about who his biological father was. My grandfather accepted his stepfather as his real father. He knew no other. His mother’s other children were fathered by the man my granddaddy accepted as his real father.
I used to wonder how it must have been for my grandfather being the odd one with white skin and white features in a family where everyone else was dark. My grandfather saw himself as completely black though. He never questioned his origins, because in America at that time and even now, though people do not really discuss it openly, a person as they used to say with one percent of “black blood” is really a black person. The feelings are still there in more conservative sectors of the society and with many of the older generation. That is why Barack Obama did not win by a landslide in these troubled times, but win he did.
My grandfather was later told by some white acquaintances that he was their cousin. They said they knew of the man who was his father. When they told him, my great grandmother had been dead for quite sometime.
My grandfather was told that his father’s surname was Ellis. My grandfather was given the surname Barrow because that was his stepfather’s name. Mr. Ellis, as I will call him here, was a married man. Whether it was rape or a love affair between him and my grandmother is unknown. The truth died with them both, since my grandfather’s white cousins did not give him any details as to the nature of the relationship. My family assumes the relationship was not consensual. The reason we have this assumption is because of the nature of black-white relations throughout slavery and through post-Civil War times. Most interracial couples in America today are black males and white females. In the times before my grandparents and after, the mixing of the races was only between white men and black women, the relationship of slave and master. After the Civil War, with slavery over, these elicit relationships continued with some black women who were domestic servants or who willingly or unwillingly caught the eye of some white man. I remember what my father used to say about such relationships. “Those women’s minds were raped along with their bodies. They felt they had no choice but to give in.” Still today, it is very difficult for most black women in America to see themselves dating or marrying a white man because of our history, family, and community pressure sometimes even more so than overall societal pressure.
In the end, whatever was between my great grandparents, it was not long lasting. My great grandfather was already married. He was a white man in the south over 80 years ago, and my great grandmother Janie (everyone called her Ma Jane) was black. There was no future even if they had wanted one. When my great grandfather found out that my great grandmother was pregnant, he took his wife and fled the county, never to return. Ma Jane went on to marry a black man, have a large family, and to never look back. Nevertheless, I am sure the scars and shame was there until the day she died nearly 40 years ago. I used to see her when I was a girl. She was a relic of the 19th century with her ankle boots and long dresses and skirts. She liked to talk a great deal and complain about how bad she felt. She was afraid of thunderstorms. I was also fearful of them even on up until I was in my 20s. We carry the traits of our parents and grandparents willingly against our will. They put their marks on our lives. They are with us even when they are gone out of existence.
My grandmother grew up to her teenage years with both of her biological parents. Her father was named Garnett, and her mother was Matilde. Grandmother once described her parents to me as thus. Her father was a tall dark skinned man, while her mother was a short light skinned woman with Indian (Native American) ancestry. My grandmother came out a combination of her parents: dark complexioned and short. When they were in their early 50s both of my grandmother’s parents died within a year of each other. They had both developed what was called dropsy. My grandmother and some of her brothers and sisters, who were not old enough to take care of themselves, went to live with an aunt.
My grandmother married late for the era she came in. She told me that she was close to 30 when she accepted my grandfather’s proposal of marriage. She had already been proposed to before by another man who had light skin and was of mixed background like my grandfather. This man would continue to be her friend throughout the years, dropping by to see my grandparents. In fact, my grandfather had courted this man’s future wife before he fell in love with my grandmother. They switched partners.
My grandparents had a large family. They worked hard to take care of their family. They picked cotton. My grandmother did domestic work for years until her last employer who was elderly like her was finally put in a nursing home. My grandfather was a carpenter. Granddaddy was illiterate. He only went to school one day. He hated it so much that he never returned. The most he learned in the education arena was to write his signature. On the other hand, my grandmother did go as far as she could in school in her era for a black woman in the south. She made it as far as the sixth grade. In her final years her favorite television show was Wheel of Fortune. She loved trying to guess some of the words.
My grandparents were highly generous and religious people. If you visited them, their home became your home. Their generosity and hospitality reminds me very much of Turkish people. If there was something in my grandparent’s house that you admired, grandma would be quick to say, “You like it? You can have it.” A number of children would have gone hungry if my grandparents had not taken them in after school and sometimes over night to feed them. Though grandparents were certainly not rich, they did not have to go without. Their generosity and kindness bred the same in others, so people were always giving them things. My grandparent’s kitchen, refrigerator, and large vegetable garden were open to all. Whites and blacks regularly dropped by. Color was never an issue for my grandparents.
Granddaddy was the quiet type. When he spoke, it was usually words of wisdom. Grandma was the opposite, lively and with a wonderful ability to not take herself seriously. She would make jokes about herself calling herself, “ugly.” Granddaddy would mumble, “Popie (that was one of her nicknames) was pretty.”
My mother used to tell me wonderful stories about her childhood with my grandparents. Grandfather not only did not know who his father was, but he was not even sure of the year when he was born. He and grandma always said he was born about 1917. Grandma knew when she was born, 1912.
My grandparents were married for 49 years. They were years of happiness, hardship, courage, and tragedy. They both lived to bury two of their own children. My mother is the eldest of all her siblings now, but there was one before her, a boy who died about 1943. My grandparents lost their eldest child to a kidney disease when he was only six. Another son who was strikingly handsome died at age 24 in a car crash. He had only been married for a few months and had a baby on the way. In 2005, my grandmother who was still alive but dying lost a third child. The family never told her that one of her son’s had cancer. She was such a worrier and ill that it was decided by the family not at add to her burden. In fact, my grandmother and uncle were both diagnosed with cancer in 2005. My grandmother had colon cancer at 93. My uncle Willie, or W.B. as everyone called him had sarcoma at age 63. My uncle died on December 26, and grandma died the next day. None of us had the courage to tell her that her son had died in his home with his family around him. The day before grandma died, we visited her in the hospital, and she was extremely lively, telling my aunt to find chairs for everyone. The next morning, my aunt called my mom and told her, “She’s gone too.”
My grandmother outlived her beloved husband by almost 20 years. Granddaddy had passed on in 1987. His death was a shock to us, because he was one of the most beloved and respected members of our family. We just did not want to believe he was dead. He died of a heart attack while out doing yard work for a lady. He was probably about 71 or 72.
I have no more grandparents now. It seems strange. I think about my boss who has lost both of his parents in less than two years. His mother died last weekend of cancer. His father, who was also the founder of the school where I work, died last year of cancer. When the people we have known and loved are gone, there is a void we cannot escape. We feel it almost everyday, a kind of emptiness. I asked my mom a few months ago does she often think about her parents. She says she does. I asked her does she sometimes feel sad. Mom is a strong person, and she told me that she does not feel sad so much because she remembers the good times. That makes up for much.
Not everyone believes in an afterlife, Heaven or Hell if you will, but I believe. When my grandmother and my uncle died in 2005, I had a vision of my uncle waiting for my grandmother in Heaven and telling her on her arrival that,” It is okay now.” Both had suffered so much in the months and weeks before their deaths.
I think my grandparents are young and attractive again, reunited above.
I have no more grandparents now. It seems strange. I think about my boss who has lost both of his parents in less than two years. His mother died last weekend of cancer. His father, who was also the founder of the school where I work, died last year of cancer. When the people we have known and loved are gone, there is a void we cannot escape. We feel it almost everyday, a kind of emptiness. I asked my mom a few months ago does she often think about her parents. She says she does. I asked her does she sometimes feel sad. Mom is a strong person, and she told me that she does not feel sad so much because she remembers the good times. That makes up for much.
Not everyone believes in an afterlife, Heaven or Hell if you will, but I believe. When my grandmother and my uncle died in 2005, I had a vision of my uncle waiting for my grandmother in Heaven and telling her on her arrival that,” It is okay now.” Both had suffered so much in the months and weeks before their deaths.
I think my grandparents are young and attractive again, reunited above.
4 comments:
Great story. Have you considered writing a book? I would write a fictional account about the love affair of your great grandparents infused with the historical truth of the past. I am sure that it would be a big hit in Turkey. IMO.
Talula,
I am glad you liked my story.
Nice thought. Maybe one day I will write a novel about my grandparents based on fact. I think here in Turkey, it would be appreciated too.
i just discovered your blog today via a comment you made on talulazoeapple, and wanted to let you know how much i appreciated the family story you shared. being an expat myself since the mid-70's, i often think about my family in the states and how much different my life sometimes is than anything many of them could have imagined. on the other hand, i never doubt for a minute that everything they were has made me what i am today.
Thanks for commenting Caratime.
Yes, our families have a profound impact on who we become. Since my grandparents were color blind just like my parents, I think it has been easy for me to live in a place like Turkey where "most people don't look like me." So many African-Americans make this kind of comment (the one in quotes), and really it is sad to. But on the other hand, the Turks make it easy for me here since they too are color blind. If they notice color, it is only in a positive way:)
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