Family

Bass Reeves

Both of my parents were incredible storytellers.

My mom spins parables, wringing insightful meaning from the most mundane circumstances.

My dad was a fantasist who never let the truth get in the way of a good story. I loved the tales he told but I took them with a grain of salt.

So when he asserted that “You know that the Lone Ranger was a Black man, right?” I rolled my eyes.

Even though I’ve known about Bass Reeves for a while now, if he were still alive I’m sure he’d jab me with, “You didn’t believe me but you believe the white lady” upon seeing this post:

https://www.facebook.com/share/r/17w7o2qdet

We’re All Villains

One of my favorite pieces of family lore revolves around my great-grandfather, Robert, called Shack, who purportedly was one of the most successful bootleggers in West Tennessee during Prohibition.

His son, my great uncle, also called Robert, loved to brag that Shack was never caught plying his trade. Shack often boasted that he never worked an honest day in his life, supporting his family in fine fashion by producing bootleg whiskey and shooting dice.

In one instance, the local sheriff assigned two deputies to follow Robert The Elder around for a week, knowing that the local juke joint was due for a resupply.

On Friday afternoon, the deputies trailed Shack in a police cruiser as he made the four mile walk into town. Even stopping to frisk him a couple of times to assure themselves that Shack carried no contraband.

Satisfied they’d done their job, they returned to headquarters to report on a successful completion to their assignment.

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

The fully resupplied juke joint conducted Friday night business uninterrupted. One can only imagine the embarrassment at headquarters the next day. How did Shack accomplish this blatant act of subterfuge?

This is the part of the story that Uncle Robert took particular glee in telling.

Shack delivered his specific brand of moonshine in concentrated form – much like orange juice – small enough to fit into a coffee can which he wrapped in shipping paper. He blended the final product on site.

To sneak his package past his police tail he attached one end of a wire to the package and threw it into the drainage ditch alongside the road. The other end of the wire went into his pocket. He strolled into town walking his can of hootch like it was a pet dog. The wire was thin enough that the deputies could not see it from their vehicle and whenever Shack saw them approach, he merely dropped the wire, stood patiently while they frisked him, and then retrieved the wire once they’d left.

Tennessee of that day was an openly racist, segregated, hierarchy, though one could make the argument that little has changed in the material lives of Black Tennesseans since. Schools are now segregated by tax codes and vouchers rather than law, for instance. The legacy of slavery hung heavily over Black men like Shack in pre-World War II Tennessee. The odds were stacked against him from birth. He had little to no chance of learning to read, let alone getting an education and his life was in constant risk of racial violence. The Klan, which briefly became active at the end of the Civil War to stem the tide of black suffrage, experienced a resurgence in the early 20th Century after the release of D.W. Griffith’s “Birth of A Nation” which glorified the “knights” of the Klan as the protectors of white society. President Woodrow Wilson praised the film after a private screening at the White House.

Another piece of family lore involves the lynching of Joe Boxley, a farmhand of limited mental capacity, who worked for a white family in Crockett County, Tennessee, where Shack plied his trade. Like Potiphar’s wife of the Old Testament, the matriarch of the family was said to relentlessly pursue Joe in a clandestine attempt to seduce him. Joe had enough sense to never be caught alone with a white woman, but his family was broke enough that he couldn’t afford to quit the job. Eventually, the woman fell ill of a mysterious malady and spent several days in bed barely conscious. When she finally came out of her stupor her first words were, “Joe?”

Such was the backdrop of the times as Shack prepared, packaged, and distributed his wares. We, his descendants, have portrayed him as an anti-hero of sorts, taking the bad hand dealt him and running a successful enterprise in “the underground economy.” Accordingly, his family wanted for nothing. Yet there were repercussions.

In later years Uncle Robert often noted that while they were at Shack’s back door on Saturday night for a personal sample of “the recipe” (they couldn’t well be seen at the local juke), the upstanding members of Crockett County’s Black society vilified Shack on Sunday thru Friday. So much so that Uncle Robert, Shack’s only son, a star athlete, and standout student was shunned by polite society. Hardened by the hypocrisy of it all, Uncle Robert determined that “if they were going to brand me a ‘bad nigger’ I’d be the ‘bad-est nigger’ imaginable.”

Never to do anything half assed, Robert Glenn fully threw himself into his new chosen path.  He made his living running his father’s whiskey and illegal gambling. Mostly dice. Unlike Shack, he paid little heed to those he crossed on either side of the law. Reflecting back decades later he would wonder if he’d manifested a type of death wish. By his own admission, he took unimaginable, unnecessary risks, often escaping disaster by a hair’s breadth.

But, in his eyes at least, he was honest about who he was and what he was doing even if his path led ultimately to self-destruction.

Eventually though, after one close call too many, he’d had enough. With few options and nowhere to go (Shack believed in “every pot sitting on its own bottom”), he added a couple of years to his age and enlisted in the army around the time armed services cleared the way for Black soldiers to fight in World War II. Uncle Robert was shipped to the European theater where he served with distinction. But that’s a story for another day.

What I’m interested in is the justifications, lies really, Uncle Robert and Shack had for their behavior.

We’re all the heroes in our own stories, usually underdogs, regularly misunderstood, often tragic. We make our personal odysseys against inconceivable odds to get the girl/right the wrong/defeat the monster.

Or so we tell ourselves.

To be clear, the obstacles that Shack and his son faced were ready made for a hero’s journey: a rigged justice system, legal slavery in the form of Jim Crow segregation and sharecropping, the constant threat of white violence, and the further indignity of the hypocritical condemnation of “proper” Black society.

How did they choose to respond?

Shack made and sold illegal whiskey, an unregulated, often dangerous substance, largely to his own community. In his times, the main risks of consuming moonshine were from poisoning from contaminants like lead, methanol, and arsenic. The results were often blindness, kidney damage, and death. I have no way of knowing to what level Shack maintained his quality controls. But it is quite possible, Shack made a very comfortable living from the high likelihood of poisoning his own people. Now, let’s assume for a moment that no one got sick or died from his “brew.”

Put bluntly, given the racial disparities of the Depression Era, pre-war South, Shack made a living salving the misery of his neighbors with an addictive substance.

Likewise, Shack’s son, my Uncle Robert, profited from the sale of the same illegal (probably tainted) whiskey, and by his own admission, “raised as much hell” as he could. In fact, he delighted in it, particularly with respect to the “fairer sex.” He told me that he never hurt anyone physically other than in self-defense. Though short on details, he confessed that he left “a trail of misery” in his wake in those days.

They were both villains of the highest order; exploitive, manipulative, heartless. Shack plied his trade in the manner of the modern tech bro sociopath. Beholding only to the bottom line. What did he care for the lives his product damaged? They consumed it of their own free will.

Robert merely met the community standards set before him. He often said that he “gave ’em what they wanted” or expected at least.

Did either of them interpret their behavior as villainy?

Of course not.

Do you?

We all manufacture justifications for our wickedness. Justifications often built on the lies we tell ourselves so that we can stand ourselves. Ironically, we often think too highly of ourselves because we fear that we are worthless. We create heroic narratives for our behavior to distract our minds from the compromises we make to our integrity, the harm we cause, the manner in which we exploit others for gain. Rather than make amends we pursue delusion. Making amends would require us to abandon our carefully constructed fantasies that undergird our self-image.

We may not lynch or poison our neighbors or exploit our peers. But we are often curt and rude to elderly relatives because of questions asked one time too many (there’s even a limit to the allowance for senility). We will unduly punish a child over a minor infraction behind a particularly frustrating commute home. We will lash out a colleague in jealousy.

And then we expand on the assumed affrontery to avoid addressing the issues that drive our behavior. We construct a hero’s narrative to justify our transgressions. Because we’re all afraid of facing what we don’t like about ourselves. We’re all warping the concept of morality to fit the shape of our fantasies. We’re all taking shortcuts to our desired outcomes. We’re all constantly looking for excuses for our questionable behavior (and doing it loud and wrong).

We’re all villains.

An Ecclesiastical Frame of Mind

“The sun rises and the sun sets,
    and hurries back to where it rises.
6 The wind blows to the south
    and turns to the north;
round and round it goes,
    ever returning on its course.
7 All streams flow into the sea,
    yet the sea is never full.
To the place the streams come from,
    there they return again.
8 All things are wearisome,
    more than one can say.
The eye never has enough of seeing,
    nor the ear its fill of hearing.” Ecclesiastes 1:5-8

Having yet to catch my breath from the current year, I can hardly look forward to a new one. But isn’t that kind of the point? Life moves on whether we’re ready for what comes or not, whether we want what it brings or not.

And I’m learning that “wanting” anything in terms of the outcomes of my living to be a pointless exercise. It’s akin to a leaf in a hurricane expecting to “get somewhere”, just tossed about aimlessly, spinning about comically with no defined path.

Better to adopt the pose of the surfer. Wait on the next wave and ride it for as long as I can. Enjoy it for as long as I can knowing that I will fall – often awkwardly and foolishly – until the last wave comes.

And knowing that I won’t be ready to stop.

FEAR OF A BLACK PARENT

We spend a lot of time afraid. Catch any local news broadcast and you will run the risk of fear dominating your life. When I was a child, I regularly imagined that my mother was abandoning me when she went off to work. She, and most of the women in my family, were my refuge. For I was often afraid of the men in my family. Which, I think, they rather preferred.

Black men in the 60’s and 70’s had very little agency beyond fear, especially in the South. Fear is what they knew, intimately. It kept them “in their place.” It often kept them alive.

To say that I was afraid of storms wouldn’t be quite right. Because storms didn’t bother me when I was with people. In fact,  in those circumstances, I rather enjoyed them. Which probably means that, at heart, I was afraid of being alone, of (again) abandonment. Similarly with the dark; as long as I was with someone, the dark held little terror.  However, proximity mattered much more in the dark. The closer the better, because if I was alone and others were not nearby in the dark, every fear was magnified. Every little sound brought terror.

As I grew older, I learned to subvert my fear because I realized that other people despised the fearful . Especially the men in my life. Showing fear meant that you were “weak,” and weakness was considered the worst trait of all. But hiding my fear made me into a fraud, because, while pretending to be brave, or at least, uninterested, I disguised the fact that I often felt things deeply.

And then, there was my father. I was certain at times that he didn’t like me. Oh, I’m sure that he “loved” me. I was his. What man doesn’t love what’s his? But I often felt like an interloper around him. Not unwanted, but certainly an inconvenience.

In retrospect, I’ve learned that a lot of what I took as my father’s disregard for me probably originated in illness. Today, he’d likely be diagnosed with sleep apnea. I have it myself and know from personal experience the brain fog and general peevishness that a chronic lack of sleep can cause. And that the energy and incessant curiosity of a small child in perpetual motion will set your nerves on edge.

What do I fear now? Death? Poverty? Disgrace? Obscurity? Surely, all of these at one time or another (and sometimes all together). But I think at the top of the list is that I don’t know myself. I faked it too long. Avoidance becomes reflexive after a while. Anything to avoid being found out, hiding so much that whatever is left of the real “you” gets warped beyond recognition. You can convince yourself of anything if it keeps you from facing yourself. But eventually, the bill comes due. Not that I necessarily pretend any less. But, acknowledging it is a start.

I be strokin’

September was quite a month.

Over the span of two weeks, I had two seizures, or, as they are referred to clinically, “hemorrhagic strokes,” due to a brain bleed.

I don’t like using the “stroke” word. Conjures up bad memories of paralysis and slurred speech and, you know, disability. And we don’t reckon well with disability in our society.

The first occurred on August 28th when I awoke to what I thought were leg cramps, only to realize that something was horribly wrong . The next thing I knew, I was lying on the floor beside my bed, my daughter, who was standing nearby, already having called 911. Naturally, I was  disoriented, but we both remained remarkably calm given the circumstances.

My daughter, as many of you know, is an exemplary human being, by the way. She performs exceptionally well under pressure (takes after her mother).

Two EMS techs promptly arrived, took my vitals, and, since the results were basically “normal ”, actually asked me if I wanted to go to the hospital. Reckoning (correctly) that I’d just had a seizure, I replied, “of course”. I was even able to walk to the gurney.

Twelve hours at U of M hospital and every scan known to man turned up nothing out of the ordinary, so they eventually released me having informed me that a certain percentage of the population will have a seizure in their lives and never have another. Of course, they advised, managing my weight and blood pressure would probably help prevent recurrence and I promised to “do better”, and put this aberration off to work stress and grieving the loss of my wife in April.

In the second instance, two weeks to the day, on September 11th, I was sitting in my home office when I became light-headed and I noticed tingling in my left foot. My daughter placed a second 911 call. This time, I had to be carried to the gurney and was awake for the onset of the second seizure enroute to U of M.

This I do not recommend.

Another round of scans turned up a brain bleed in the right lower quadrant of my dura. I have learned that the dura is a “thick membrane made of dense irregular connective tissue that surrounds the brain and spinal cord.” The source of the bleed was an “AV Fistula” which is “an irregular connection between an artery and a vein.” Or, as one of the smart people at U of M put it “a really gnarly mass of blood vessels that you were probably born with.” The blood leaked from my dura and made contact with my gray matter, which is never a good thing. 

Note: There is a “blood-brain barrier” for a reason, folks.

Do not cross it.

Now here’s the thing: a lot of people are born with AV Fistulas (or develop them at some point) and live their entire lives knowing nothing about them . A very small percentage of people will have them burst because of unmanaged (or poorly managed) high blood pressure and/or stress.

Of course, I was guilty of the former and living through the latter. Fortunately, the only “damage” resulting from this whole affair is some numbness in my left foot, which has greatly improved over time. But the numbness doesn’t hinder me;  I’ve taken to walking about 4 miles a day for exercise, which has helped me drop about 35 pounds and significantly reduced my blood pressure.

What have I learned?

Well, this whole year has taught me that I have control over nothing, something I knew but now truly understand. However I do have responsibilities; to my faith, my family, my job, and myself, to name a few. I’m no martyr, but I really wasn’t looking after that last item on the list. So I’ve made my health a priority. Otherwise, I really cannot live up to any other responsibilities, can I?

What did I get out of all of this?

Certainly, charity and support from family and extended family. “Extended family” being a wholly strange term that usually applies to friends. We generally think of the concept of extended family as “taking the other in,” of extending familial bonds beyond blood ties. Which, wrongly, makes family exclusive. As if, someone is being “let in” to a select club.

In my case, I see it as the other way around. Others extended themselves for me. It’s hard for us as Americans, and especially for Midwesteners, to accept the kindness of others, because we often labor under the notion that we are undeserving of care, of mercy, and, even of love.

But isn’t that the point of mercy, that it’s “unmerited favor?” You cannot “earn” the love of the people that care for you. “Earned love” is just “payback.” Something transactional and rancid and also, unfortunately, all too American.

Besides, “blood ties” are just a matter of circumstance. The instances of blood relatives who cannot stand each other are as common as water. I’m satisfied  with the family that I picked and that picked me.

September was one for the books, as was the entire year. I’m glad that things are as well as they are. 

The title I picked for this essay is a play on words from the title of an old Clarence Carter song (IYKYK). The carnal implications of Mr. Carter’s lyrics aside, there is also a commitment to stay with it, to keep going. 

To persevere. 

At the end of it all, that’s what I’m left with.

In spite of two successive strokes, perhaps, even because of them, I be strokin’.

Frank

Frank 1

This is Frank Beard, my maternal grandmother’s father with his first wife. As far as I know, this is not a drawing. The picture was taken in black and white and then colored in after. We removed it from a frame that was as warped and weathered as the picture; a massive, heavy thing, ornately carved.

If I recall correctly, Frank was married 4 times. The woman pictured, his first wife. She bore him 2 sons before she died. His second was my grandmother’s mother who died when my grandmother was quite young. Frank’s 3rd wife treated my grandmother and her brothers very cruelly. The boys were beaten so severely they passed blood. This woman’s 2 daughters tormented my grandmother while the boys were in the field working alongside Frank. These “wicked stepsisters” dictated to my grandmother and her siblings how much they could eat. Consequently, they were underfed. My grandmother told stories of scrounging for scraps in the chicken yard.

Here’s the thing: Frank was evidently oblivious to all of this. It was not until he was alerted by a cousin, a woman who raised the alarm at the poor condition of his children, that he took action. He divorced Wife Number 3 and married a 4th time. Wife Number 4 proved to be a vast improvement.

I used to put off Frank’s neglect of his children to the times in which he lived. Caring for the brood was “women’s work” and none of his concern. He paid no real attention to the physical condition of his children. Made no notice of the interactions between them. Caught no signs of menace between his wife and her stepchildren. He had to attend to his farm. The day to day of his family passed his notice.

What are we allowing to pass our notice? Apparently quite a bit if the latest news is any indication. What does is say about the times in which we live? What is more important to us than addressing neglect and abuse in our very midst?

It’s said that, on her death bed, Wife Number 3 called Frank to her bedside. She claimed to see a finger writing on the wall so fast that she couldn’t read it. It was giving an accounting of her past sins.

No one knows if Frank forgave her.

Ice Breaker

Meeting new family can be challenging. What do you talk about? There is no shared history. And current events being what they are, no one is really in a hurry to start in on the news. The first black president has moved on to greener pastures and his successor is continually mired in a scandal a week while simultaneously inspiring America’s most racist impulses.

So you’re left with brief periods of small talk – the weather, traffic, the few friends you may have in common (which you really don’t) and then silences punctuated by sighing and staring off into the middle distance.

And then the meal starts. Tongues loosen, shirt sleeves roll up, collars unbutton and the stories flow. By the time the pots and pans are done, everyone is laughing and backslapping and trading phone numbers. Good food has that effect. Raises blood sugar and communal spirit. Puts people at ease. Sets everyone on a common path.

My great aunt had such a meal today with a branch of her family I know little to nothing about. And I’m still not certain of the connection. But who cares? We have now shared food and have hopefully started our own history.