I loved my grandmother dearly but didnโt have enough time with her. She died when I was 9. I still think of her almost every day. She taught me so many foundational things I couldnโt begin to list them. I canโt remember her voice, but I remember her face, smile, and hair as I do my own hands. I was fortunate to be her grandchild.
But she was my grandmother. Not a great, great, or great. I agonize when I reflect on the 8 generations of Black people that suffered the pain, weight, and indignity of slavery in America. I feel all the hurt of those grandmothers that saw their children raised as chattel. Even more horrible was being born free, living free, only to have your father murdered and your mother raped before being sold off and you, you raped and beaten for the rest of your unnatural life. Surely living as a slave was an unnatural life.
Whips, chains and servitude until you died. There was no peaceful death during sleep only release.
161 years, almost another 8 generations since the civil war, grandmothers still agonize their children growing up in institutional segregation, poverty and disenfranchisement.
And HISTORY is the cruelest part of this. History is written every day. A generation is 20-30 years, and in 30 years, history will suggest now was a wonderful time to be alive. How we have come a long way since Martin, Malcolm, Medgar, but tell a mother whose son is killed tomorrow because he reached for a bag of Skittles that we had more benefits, more โfreedomโ than ever before. That our futures are brighter than ever. The real truth is HISTORY is the greatest liar of all. Living in the moment is truth. The TRUTH is the second-class treatment, perception, and opportunity we endure today would break my grandmotherโs heart.
I donโt have a picture of my grandmother. She only lives in my mind. The only image of her final days lives with me. Everyone else has passed away or wasnโt there. She was beautiful in so many ways and, though I tried, I couldnโt find an image that conveyed her grace.
