Columbus

After we left Macedonia cemetery Sunday afternoon, we drove a short distance to the heart of Columbus. This was where my biological grandmother’s first four children had been born, and where extended family had once lived.

My uncle was hoping to reconnect with the woman who had purchased his father’s property decades before. Back then, she had a little store in the main part of town. But someone at the church told him that the store was long gone. The only business remaining was the post office (as with most other small towns around here—in part a byproduct of the rise of Arkansas-based Walmart).

So our expectations were low as we pulled into Columbus, which now was a small rural community comprised of scattered homes on verdant farm lands. We had no idea which house my birthfather and his siblings were born in, or if it still stood. The 1950 census that listed my grandmother and her family did not include an address or even a street name.

Unable to visit the place where they’d been born, we turned our attention to trying to find the land Robert’s father, Joe Nathan Thomas, had once purchased with his brother. The Thomas brothers had owned multiple acres of farmland and it had been a point of pride. It must have been difficult for Joe to sell the property in his old age, long before he passed away in 2008.

Uncle Robert couldn’t remember exactly where the property was, but we had the coordinates from the sale papers. We finally pinpointed a plot of land that sloped gently uphill, and that appeared to have once held a house foundation. Robert stood inside the gate and gazed across the land for a long time, thinking about his dad and the past.

Ollie Belle and Joe Thomas had not been married when uncle Robert was born. The military took Joe away, and soon after Ollie Belle married Roy Cheatham who became Robert’s stepfather. Many decades later, after Ollie Belle’s marriage to Roy ended, she went back to Arkansas with Robert so he could meet with his dad and sisters on that side. Ollie Belle and Joe’s romance was rekindled. Joe was still Ollie Belle’s husband when she passed away from cancer on August 28, 1996.

I thought about all of this as we stood and looked out over the field dotted with large cylindrical bales of hay. I thought about how ephemeral it all was, lives beginning and ending, swelling and then fading back, leaving only wisps of dissipating stories. In the end, proof of a life lived often boiled down to those stories, a few treasured objects and photos, and the physical features and personality traits that lived on through children and grandchildren.

Having completed the day’s checklist of places to visit, we drove back to Hope to grab a meal and catch the end of a football game on TV. After that we decided to stretch our legs before it got dark. We explored the few square blocks that make up downtown Hope, marveling at how much of a ghost town it is, despite local efforts at revitalization. We stopped by a charming coffee shop in a tall and narrow historic building that had bible quotes on nearly every wall. This was one of the nicer buildings in town. Many others were run down, and a few were completely caved in, with plants growing inside —nature reclaiming what used to be vibrant businesses.

We did find a cheerful area with colorful metal tables and painted murals, and did an impromptu photo shoot in front of one that read: “Don’t Lose Hope.” That felt like a message we needed to hear, for so many reasons. I felt like this entire trip was telling me to not lose hope, even when so many facts about my enslaved ancestors were lost. There was still so much to bear witness to and learn from.

Ethnic Minority Memorabilia Association

Monday morning we had breakfast, packed up our things and checked out of our hotel. Our next stop was the Ethnic Minority Memorabilia Association (also known as EMMA.), a small Black history museum located in the heart of Historic Washington State Park. It had been closed when we had stopped by two days before, and we later found out we could only visit by appointment. But the director of the Southwest Arkansas Regional Archives connected me with Barbara Smith, the daughter of museum founder Mildred Smith. Mildred had passed away some years ago, and Barbara had taken over EMMA, wanting to carry on her mother’s legacy.

The museum was small, housed in what used to be a modest but quaint home. Barbara was waiting for us on the porch at the appointed time and let us in to take a look around. Items were on display in three small rooms, and we took our time looking at the many photos, books and documents that spoke of the history of local African-Americans.

I told Barbara a bit about my personal journey. I shared about finding biological family later in life and how I was now obsessed with genealogy. I showed her my copy of the Gamble family history book written by our cousin Raimonda Martin. She asked if I could help get a copy to display at EMMA and I promised I would.

I couldn’t stop staring at one large photo over a door of some men weighing picked cotton on a road next to a large field. From their clothing it looked like it was the 1920s or 30s. I thought of my great-grandparents. They had been out there in the fields picking cotton too, often in extreme heat, working until their hands became callused and bled. The stooping caused its own problems, aching backs and joints. So much hard work, and usually for almost no pay during the sharecropping years after slavery.

I also took some photos of documents related to a Dolly Pennington, an enslaved woman who was set free upon her owner’s death in 1829, and who later became one of the first women to own property in Washington, Arkansas. I have Penningtons in my family tree, so I was fascinated with her story and wondered if she might be a relative. I later realized there isn’t much about her online. I would have never learned about her if I hadn’t visited Washington in person.

After a lovely visit, we gave a donation and said our goodbyes to Barbara, thanking her for taking the time to open up the museum. We went back to Hope to visit Bill Clinton’s birthplace home, but it was closed due to the government shut down, so instead we visited the fascinating Klipsch Museum of Audio History next door. We then drove to Little Rock where we spent the night before our flight to Seattle the next morning.

Cousins

During our five day trip we had the good fortune of being able to stop and visit with multiple cousins. We kicked off the trip in Dallas-Ft Worth, Texas where we rented a car and visited with cousin James Davis. When I first met Uncle Robert five years ago, he told me about James who was also very interested in family history. Back then, James had spoken with me on the phone, enthusiastically welcoming me into the family. It was so wonderful to finally meet him in person. He was a big man, with an even bigger heart. He bought us a delicious meal and spent the evening with us, sharing stories and laughter. He was the one who encouraged us to go to Macedonia Baptist church, and for that I was so grateful.

The next day, on our way to Hempstead County, we made a stop in Paris, Texas to have lunch with cousin Claudia Fulbright. I had first met Claudia in 2017 when our DNA matched on Ancestry. At first, we had no idea how we were related, but once I successfully identified my birth father, we pieced together that she must be another of my great-grandfather Joe B. Trotter’s grandchildren (as is James Davis). Claudia is a lovely and warm woman who has been there from the beginning of my journey, and I’ll always hold a special place in my heart for her.

After we left Paris, we stopped in Texarkana to have dinner with my cousin Mary Flowers, who is related to me in a way that deserves its own separate story . While doing some family research in 2020, I had unearthed an old photo of her mother, Helen Mitchell. Someone later put me in touch with Mary, and I sent her the photo. She was stunned as she had never seen a full body photo of her mother, who had died when Mary was only a year old. It felt like a small miracle. We loved meeting her in person, and I can’t wait to go back and visit with her again.

During our last 24 hours in Arkansas we had the chance to meet up with a few more cousins in Little Rock. We met uncle Robert’s paternal cousin Leontine at a delicious cajun seafood restaurant downtown (where I had excellent grilled catfish). Leontine is a wonderful person and such a beauty —I still can’t believe she’s older than me.

The next day, we squeezed in lunch with brothers Charles and Dwight Stuart, cousins on the Cheatham side. Robert hadn’t seen them in 50 years but they picked up right where they left off, delighting in spending time together. It was a joyful end to the trip, a reminder that even though the trail back to ancestors can be hard to follow, strong connections can be made through living descendants.

As we flew home to Seattle, I had so much to think about. I will always deeply love my adoptive family, and at the same time, I have room in my heart for my newfound blood relatives. I’m lucky to have more people to love and to get to know. And I am grateful to be gathering pieces of my history together, weaving my two lives into one.

Resources

I couldn’t have done so much genealogy research without help. Shout out to my dear childhood friend Jana, also an adoptee, who helped me find my biological family and is still helping me solve mysteries. I am forever grateful for all she has done for me. And there’s my genealogy buddy Kelly McCoy who I meet with every month, and who helped me prepare for this trip to Arkansas. She recently launched her genealogy business Roots to Return, helping others to reconnect with their past in order to return home to themselves. I highly recommend her services.

I also highly recommend ancestral travel. Nothing can match the perspective you gain by visiting the places your ancestors were from. I’ve listed a few additional genealogy resources below to help you on your family history journey. (Check out my genealogy-related talks for even more resources.)

• Ancestry

• Family Search

• Legacy Family Tree Webinars

• Afro-American Historical & Genealogical Society (AAHGS)

Macedonia

After a day of haunting the past, it was time to enter the present, to interact with the living. We woke up Sunday morning, had breakfast at our hotel in Hope (which was the current Hempstead County seat, famous for being the birthplace of Bill Clinton) and drove out of town to Macedonia Baptist Church.

This was the church that my grandmother Ollie Belle Trotter had attended, along with her mother Lilian Johnson, and her aunts Bessie and Mary Johnson. The Johnson sisters and my grandmother all moved to Seattle in the 1950s. Their descendants make up the large family that still lives in the Seattle area.

Founded in 1869 after emancipation, Macedonia has never stopped serving the local Black community. I didn’t realize the church’s longevity until they announced it during the service. I was stunned. Family members had worshipped here for over 150 years. This was where the present and the past intermingled, the connecting thread.

There were maybe 30 people in attendance. Everyone noticed us, we couldn’t hide the fact that we were strangers. We were welcomed and invited to sit closer to the front, so there was no way we could hide in the back. I remembered to ask for Cecil, the man that our cousin in Texas, James Davis, had called a few days ago to let him know we would be coming. Soon a tall man came out with a wide smile, and shook all of our hands as we got settled in our pew. Then a small women’s choir started singing the old, bluesy gospel song from the 1930s “Jesus is on the Mainline” and I was immediately hooked.

It’s hard to describe what happens to me when I attend a Black Baptist church. One thing I’ll say is that I always wonder by the end of the service why I don’t attend them more often. There is an electricity that builds with the call and response, the amens, the gospel music, the rhythmic preaching, the laughter—until I am humming with gratitude and a feeling of devotion, and a sense of the divine.

I find myself praising Jesus and feeling uplifted, certain that the Spirit is hearing and answering our call—feeling like a thirst I didn’t know I had is being quenched. There is a feeling of coming home to where I should be, a place where worship includes music and song, loud expressions of joyfulness, a sense of abandon and surrender, a giving over of oneself to prayer and praise. It feels so embodied to worship in this way— not sitting in silence on my cushion, but instead swaying and singing with others, nodding and laughing, teary and hopeful.

The pastor, Lorenzo D. Kelly, invited us to stand and say where we were from early in the service. My uncle was a little flustered but took up the mantle and announced that we were from Seattle, and that we were descendants of Cheatham, Trotter and Thomas people from Hempstead County. He also mentioned that he was born just down the road in Columbus, but had left the area when he was three years old. People nodded and murmured their approval. Then the service kept unfolding, drawing us in with its music. A woman who appeared to be the music director was playing a double electric piano and belting out Motown-worthy songs while accompanied by the choir and another woman on drums. The pastor also sang on his own at one point and he had a beautiful voice. I needed more gospel music in my life, I noted to myself.

The sermon was about prayer, how it spells relief like the old Rolaids TV ads from my childhood. How do you spell relief? R-O-L-A-I-D-S! Except in this case, he was saying: How do you spell relief? P-R-A-Y-E-R-S! By the end I felt inspired to recommit to daily prayer, to asking regularly for help, support and guidance. I felt like I was supposed to hear this message. My husband was feeling it too, he leaned over to me at one point and said, I think I found my new church.

After the service, people came to talk with us and ask about our family surnames. We mentioned that my grandmother Ollie Belle Trotter had been married to Roy Cheatham, and many remembered Roy and his sister Estherine. A few pointed out that I looked like Estherine, which made me happy. As we were talking we kept an eye out for an elderly gentleman who had stood up during the service and offered a prayer. We had all noticed that his name was Robert Trotter, something that grabbed our attention since my uncle’s name is Robert Trotter Thomas. The local Robert was a deacon of the church, a community elder. We definitely needed to talk to him.

I looked around but didn’t see him. But then my uncle suddenly spotted him and made his way quickly over to that side of the church, me trailing behind. He introduced himself and told the deacon his name, which greatly surprised him. Wow - you’re another Robert Trotter? Well I’ll be! Turned out Deacon Trotter was in his 80s and still sharp as a tack. He remembered not only my grandmother, but also her father Joe B. Gamble Trotter, and even more amazingly, the couple who had adopted and raised Joe B., Jack and Mary Jane Totter.

I pulled out my iPad and started showing photos of my grandmother, Joe B. and Jack and Mary Jane Trotter. Look at that - it’s uncle Jack! said one man, an astonished look on his face. Everyone started gathering around, marveling at the photos, asking how I got them and if I could immediately start texting them to everyone. Which I did.

We weren’t sure exactly how everyone in the building was related, but it was clear these were all cousins, descendants of the people who had been freed from slavery and first lived in Clow. Over time those descendants spread out through the county—my more recent ascendants living in nearby Columbus. I was with family. My heart was singing.

After promising to keep in touch with Deacon Trotter, we stayed inside the church chatting with the pastor and his wife, and a few others who lingered, until we were nearly the last ones there. We then took photos outside the church with a lovely and friendly church member.

Macedonia is now housed in a newer building, but the previous church still stands behind it. We wandered over to take a look, and saw that family names were etched into stone markers near the front door that honored former church deacons. That building had officially opened in 1949, which meant that my uncle Robert would have certainly gone to church there as a two year old, along with my birth father Willie Ray who would have been a babe in arms.

Nearly 2 and half hours after we first arrived, we pulled out of the church parking lot and onto the highway, headed back to Hope for lunch. I marveled at how fortunate we were to have attended church on the same day as Deacon Trotter. He now lived in Texarkana and only went to Macedonia once a month, if that.

I thought back to our dinner with cousin James Davis in Texas a few days prior. James had grown up in Hempstead County, and had been a member of the church. I had first spoken to James five years ago, after successfully identifying my birth father using DNA matching and genetic genealogy. Uncle Robert had mentioned back then that James was also into family history and put us in touch.

James had prayed over the phone to welcome me into the family, and he prayed for all of us the first night of this trip, just before we ate dinner together. He had asked for the way to be made smooth as we traveled to Arkansas, for us to find a way to know more about our forebears. And it was clear to me now that his prayers had been answered. The way everything had flowed yesterday during our explorations of Washington and Clow. The way we had accidentally picked the right day to come to church and meet someone who was an invaluable connection to the past.

After lunch we returned to Macedonia, but this time went across the highway to the cemetery. Here were buried Trotters, Cheathams and people with other last names I recognized. I found the graves of Jack and Mary Jane Trotter and paid my respects. James had sent me their photo five years ago, and I never tired of looking at it. It had even inspired me to write a poem. They were sharecroppers, living a hard life that showed on their worn leathery faces, and equally hard worn shoes and clothing. Mary Jane had lived to be 107 years old.

Jack and Mary Jane had taken in my great-grandfather Joe B. when he was baby, for reasons unknown—a mystery I’m still trying to solve. They later adopted him. Rumor has it that Joe B. was a player and a bad boy, eventually being “kicked out of the Gamble family” according to James, who was one of Joe B.’s grandchildren. Joe B. was a true rolling stone. And he loved the ladies. The photo I have of him shows a handsome man dressed in dapper clothes and a jaunty fedora hat, with a cigar in one of his meaty hands. He had fathered children with many different women. The old church members apparently used to say: Wherever he lay his hat was home—and when he left, she was pregnant.

I liked that Joe B. and I had adoption in common. And I was proud that I made the connection that we descended from the Gamble family, through DNA matches and conversations with a Gamble family historian who confirmed that Joe B. Trotter was originally Joe B. Gamble. This was new information for my immediate biological family in Seattle.

Standing in front of the graves of the people who raised Joe B. felt meaningful. They became more real, especially after meeting people who remembered them when they were alive. The past was drawing nearer to me, I felt like I could almost reach out and touch it. And I somehow felt more real now too, standing here in Arkansas. I knew where I came from. Finally.

My recent ancestral trip to Arkansas felt like two twin experiences in one. One experience was visiting the silent places of the past, the places where only traces of the dead remain, where one must imagine and conjure another time, feel into the quiet with the heart instead of the mind. The other experience was of joyous connection and welcome, of new friends and new places. I communed with both the dead and the living, the two becoming intertwined, both offering their own understanding.

Hempstead County, Arkansas was the land of my biological ancestors for 100 years. My enslaved 5th great-grandmother Lizette Gamble was brought here with some of her enslaved children and grandchildren in the 1850s, and her descendants remained until they began to leave in the 1950s. Here, my family passed through emancipation, the Reconstruction era, and the rise of the Ku Klux Klan and lynch law. The oppression and dehumanization of slavery was replaced by unfair sharecropping practices, and the demoralization that came with Jim Crow laws and segregation.

My biological grandmother, Ollie Belle, chose to join the waves of the Great Migration, moving to Chicago with her husband in 1950, and then leaving her husband and following her aunts to Seattle in 1954. She wanted something better for her then five children, which included my biological father Willie Ray, and my uncle Robert, who accompanied me on this trip.

Willie Ray, Robert and my aunts Mary and Linda were the only four of Ollie Belle’s children born in Arkansas, the last generation in my immediate family to be born in Hempstead County. It meant a lot to my uncle to be able to finally go back after decades. And it meant a lot to me that he could join me. I’ve only known him for five years now, but our connection has felt deeper than that - like we’ve been old friends for a long time.

I had never been to Arkansas. Honestly, I probably would have never gone there if I hadn’t found my biological family. Up until five years ago I knew practically nothing about it. I vaguely understood that it was a southern state, but didn’t think of it as being as culturally southern as Louisiana, Mississippi or South Carolina. But it is. And it was a Confederate state during the war.

I became eager to go to Arkansas after finding out about my 5th great-grandmother whose rare name I somehow share, despite being adopted out of the family at birth. I have been obsessed with her ever since. A few years ago, my uncle and I traveled to South Carolina where she lived most of her life in slavery. Now it was time to go to where she had lived out her final years in freedom.

And so my uncle, husband and I found ourselves exploring Hempstead County for a few days last month, moving between silent and vibrant spaces, between the dead and the living.

Washington and Clow

During our first full day, we explored Historic Washington State Park, which preserved the old town of Washington, Arkansas, the former county seat. The park consisted of modest and grand 19th century buildings, majestic trees, the original county courthouse which now holds a museum, a tavern that has served food since the 1700s (and still serves incredible meals), and beautiful long roads that resemble painted idyllic country scenes. I had no idea that Arkansas held so much natural beauty.

The park is also home to the Southwest Arkansas Regional Archives (SARA) where we spoke with the friendly and helpful director and her assistant, and where I pored over county cemetery indexes, looking for family names. We enjoyed our many hours at the historic park, and promised ourselves that we would return.

After leaving Washington, we drove north in search of what used to be two bustling historic Black towns: Ozan and Clow. There wasn’t much to see in Ozan besides a post office and some random houses, so we drove the five additional miles to Clow. Things became even more rural. As we entered the land where many of my ancestors had lived, it was hard to imagine that it once held nearly a thousand Black families building new lives after emancipation in the 1860s. There was no visible sign of a former town. Only a few homes remained, nestled in what was now thick forest.

We pulled up to what the Google map pin said was Clow, in front of Wiley Baptist Church, a small and modest building. The only other non-residential structure was a dilapidated building across the street, where apparently the Black Masons (the oldest and largest predominantly African-American fraternal order in the United States) used to hold their meetings on the top floor. We walked around it, taking pictures. It was beautiful in its own tired, worn way.

I was finally standing where Lizette had lived with some of her children and many grandchildren. I had arrived. I barely knew anything about her. The only documentation of her life was in South Carolina estate papers where she was left with other property to her owner’s son, and her appearances in the 1870 and 1880 censuses living in Clow. I hungered to learn more about her. Perhaps this place could give me clues.

But of course that’s not how this works. There was no bolt of lightning or spirit visitation. There wasn’t anything to see that was directly connected to her. Instead what I noticed was the quality of the light through the trees, and the peacefulness of this seemingly forgotten place. It did feel good to imagine her living in such natural beauty—a different perspective than the brutal realities of the Civil war and the uncertainty that followed.

After peering into the windows of the locked church, we got back into the car and crossed the railroad tracks that once brought supplies, people and the outside world to this small town. We found the dirt road that led to our next destination, the nearby African-American cemetery. As we drove, I thought about how there was so little left of Clow, and how if I hadn’t learned about its history I would have never believed that it had been there at all. Where had it all gone? Life was so impermanent. Then it hit me that what primarily remained was that community’s descendants. We were the living remnants. The DNA in my cells connected me to that past. And that had to be enough.

The dirt road wound its way through tall oak and pine trees. Finally, we came to a wide clearing and saw headstones and then a handmade sign that said “Cumming Cemetery”. The cemetery, in fact, was cut in half by the road. We parked and got out. We soon realized that the older headstones were on the right side of the road, so we went through the gate on that side, my husband and I splitting up.

This was a place of tall grass and old cracked stone slabs with fading names carved into them, some falling over, some illegible, some too heavy to lift so we could try to read names. It was hot and humid, still in the upper 80s even though it was now October. Anthills dotted the meadow, spiders scurried, crickets made their grinding, mechanic sound.

So many Gambles were buried here. I did extra research before the trip, hoping to learn where Lizette Gamble was buried. But there was no record of her death, and she was not listed in any Hempstead county cemeteries. But I knew she had lived in Clow and this had been the Black cemetery for the area since the 1860s, so this had to be it. But I would never know exactly where her bones lay.

I wasn’t sure how I felt being here. It felt important, but also eerie to be walking without ceremony on this land that held so many ancestral bones. These headstones could not speak to me, there was no one left. Why was I here, anyway? To find proof that my people were here? I could do that online. Maybe to miraculously locate a marker that someone else had overlooked? What would I really accomplish in person?

But there was something unnameable in the silence. There was something about being here in real time. I felt reverence as I walked where my ancestors had laid their loved ones to rest. Where they had shared stories that were now unknowable, but that some of the oldest trees had heard. And not only was Lizette probably buried here, my 3rd great-grandmother Annie Hannah Gamble was definitely buried here per county records (although I never did find her grave).

After a while, I found myself alone in a copse of small trees, trying to make out the name on a headstone that was leaning over from the push and pull of the roots around it. I couldn’t make it out. I paused and closed my eyes. I thought of my grandmothers whose graves I could not find. And I realized I didn’t need to see their names to speak to them.

Grandmothers. I am here. I am here to honor you. Thank you for passing on your strength to me. Help me to reimagine your lives, to know you better somehow. Grandmothers. I am here. I remember you.

I stood still, letting my whispered words dissipate into the breeze and the unknown seep into my bones. Then I walked back out into the sun and joined my husband, taking pictures of a few graves, including one for Matthew Gamble, a distant cousin who died in 1941. It had a remarkably intact black and white photo of him above his name. I stared at his handsome face and silently paid my respects.

Before we left I stood in the road that divided the cemetery, oak trees on either side, my photographer husband capturing the moment. I felt grateful, filled up in a way that is hard to describe. I had not technically learned anything new. But I had walked the earth that held the bones of my ancestors. I had asked for guidance as I seek to write about and reimagine their lives. I was replanting myself in the soil of where they had lived and died. And in so doing, I was reclaiming the lineage that I had been severed from at birth, yet somehow had never fully lost. A lineage that had waited patiently for me for half a century. And for a moment, I felt like the land had been waiting for me, too.

Read Part 2 of my Arkansas reflections.

I truly can’t believe I am finally in Sub-Saharan Africa. I am here primarily on a personal writing retreat, and also to explore. I am incredibly lucky to have friends who are hosting me in Dakar. Although less than 5% of my DNA comes from the Senegambian region, coming here feels like the perfect entry to a continent I have long dreamed of visiting. And while here I will visit one of the points of departure for thousands, and possibly millions, of enslaved Africans: Gorée Island.

Only a few months ago I was on the other side of things. I spent a long weekend in Charleston, South Carolina visiting the new International African American Museum. It was built on the historic site of Gadsen Wharf, the port of arrival for nearly half of all enslaved Africans brought to North America. The museum’s mission is “to honor the untold stories of the African American journey at one of our country’s most sacred sites.”

While in Charleston, I visited the McLeod Plantation located on James Island, one of the Charleston Sea Islands. The islands are home to the Gullah people, descendants of slaves who have retained more of their ancestral African cultures and languages then anywhere else in the United States.

What sets this tour apart is that it centers the lives of the enslaved people who lived and worked on the plantation. Other similar tours typically focus on the lives of the plantation owners, glamorizing the stereotype of the gentile Southern life that was made popular with movies like Gone With the Wind.

At McLeod, local guides like the Iysta Day focus on the unvarnished truth, offering stories about individual slaves, information about slavery economy, and discussing post civil war realities for newly freed people.

I so enjoyed listening to, and learning from Iysta – with his rich voice, vast knowledge and powerful storytelling. He graciously allowed me to record during the tour and gave me permission to share this audio. (The recording jumps in mid-stream but I didn’t want to cut out any of what he was saying).

Although my ancestors were not enslaved on this exact plantation, they were held only an hour and half from James Island, in Nesmith, SC. I was grateful to gain deeper insight into what most likely was also their experience, as difficult as it is to hear. As I learn more about the realities for my ancestors, I learn more about my country and the context for the issues we continue to struggle with today. (Speaking of which, I’m currently reading the profoundly enlightening book Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents by the brilliant Isabel Wilkerson. Highly recommend.)

I hope you enjoy and gain some insight from this historically rich sound bite from the road.

I plan on sharing photos and videos from Senegal on my Instagram profile –be sure to subscribe if you haven’t already).

Greetings from the liminal space between the holidays and the New Year. Solstice came recently too – we have returned to the lengthening of days, for which I am grateful. I hope you enjoyed these last weeks, and found some peace and time for yourself.

I want to share a few things as the year comes to a close. In many ways it has been a difficult year – not only in the world with its devastating wars and political turmoil, but also for me personally. I experienced unbelievable lows, things that made my heart tighten and threaten to break into a thousand pieces.

I had to retreat in various ways. I tended to health and family as best I could. My social calendar and social media channels were mostly quiet. I was fortunate to spend a restorative 35 days alone in Zihuatanejo, Mexico in February. I went back in July with a dear friend, and we did a healing ritual in the ocean.

Nurturing creativity was the theme for me this year. In January I started a daily journaling practice, after joining Suleika Jaouad’s inspiring Isolation Journals community. I took a creative writing class and audio storytelling workshops in the spring and summer. I created my first audio story in the fall. I drafted a collection of poems that I’ve written over the years (and submitted it to a few contests).

As the year waned, I started writing down a story that is asking to be told – about finding my biological family and uncovering buried parts of myself. I don’t know how long it will take, or what the final form will be (podcast, memoir, essay collection, poetry). But I hope it will eventually make its way into the world and help others.

Part of this creative momentum came from attending two writing retreats. The first one was in October, held by Lori Tharps of Read Write and Create in the countryside outside Sevilla, Spain. It was specifically for women of color writers, and I am now part of an incredible sisterhood. We support each other in keeping our creative fires lit.

That experience led to an unexpected invitation in November to attend a writing retreat in Marrakech, hosted by Silk Road Slippers. It came at a time when I needed it most. It was a magical experience. I met wonderful people at both retreats, including highly accomplished writers who taught us so much. I made new friends and important connections.

I also traveled my roots. My trip to Morocco last month marks the first time I set foot on African soil. I also went to Sicily in May, which was a revelation. I shared about that experience in my audio story Sicilian Anniversary, and in a conversation with Lisa Marie Conine about traveling our Sicilian roots. You can also check out my photographer husband’s stunning trip photos. I plan on sharing more about the ancestral town that my Italian great-grandparents are from (Piana degli Albanesi) soon.

I stopped in Dublin for a few days on my way to Spain, and enjoyed wandering the neighborhoods and going to music shows. I spent an afternoon touring Glasnevin cemetery and looking for the graves of my Irish third great-grandparents.

And earlier this month I went back to Charleston with my genealogy buddy, Kelly McCoy. We visited the new International African American Museum, went on a Black history tour, visited the McLeod Plantation, and attended a genealogy lecture. Many of my enslaved ancestors came from South Carolina, which is not surprising since an estimated 40% of all enslaved Africans entered this country through Gadsden’s Wharf (where the museum now sits). I’ll be returning to Charleston to do more research.

Next on my DNA travel list is a return to Sicily in March. I’ll spend a month in Palermo studying Italian, writing, and recording audio. I’m also planning genealogy trips to Arkansas and Northern Ireland, and hope to visit friends in Senegal. Fingers crossed.

On a side note: I recently appeared as a guest on a new podcast called Traveling On Purpose. I truly enjoyed my conversation with host DJ Jack. Sharing below.

I’ll wrap up with some of the lessons I’ve learned this year. They were hard earned, and I plan on keeping them close.

• Take in all the joy and abundance you can on a daily basis. You never know when something difficult is around the corner.

• Self care comes first. It makes a huge difference for your capacity to weather the storm, which in turn helps your loved ones.

• Difficult and draining relationships are not worth the energy. It is important to set boundaries when you need to.

• Angels are everywhere. Even when things seem to be at rock bottom, love and support are available if you ask for help.

• Magic happens. Especially when things are hard.

• Fill your creative cup, especially during life’s interruptions and losses. Creativity is a lifeline that will keep you afloat.

I’d love to hear what this year has offered you. Feel free to hit reply or leave a comment below.

And as always, thank you for letting me share my journey with you. I hope that it inspires you to dig deeper into your own roots, and find room in your life for storytelling, creativity and self care.

Wishing you love and light in 2024.

Lisette

In this episode I talk with Lisa Marie Conine of – a sister ancestral traveler that I met through Substack. We have a lot in common, including ancestral roots in Sicily, Italy.

We decided to record a conversation about our shared experiences. We talk about how we are connected to Sicily, our recent trips to the island, and what we learned during our travels. We touch on food, health and wellness, citizenship and more.

We also talk about why it’s important to go to the places your ancestors are from, and how these places are encoded in our very DNA. You’ll also hear how ancestral travel is changing our lives.

I mentioned Lisa Marie’s post about her trip to Sicily during our chat… you can check it out below.

Beloved Gateway

The Return

Hi all, It is time for some story medicine! I share in this audio my experience of returning to my ancestral lands and the impact that has had on my physiology & spirit. Tune in to feel the magic of …

Read more

3 years ago · 1 like · 3 comments · Lisa Marie Conine

I also mention my Globetrotter Lounge episodes that are related to ancestral and genealogy travel. To quickly find them, visit travelingmyroots.com and scroll part way down the home page.

So grateful for this conversation. I hope you enjoy it.

This is my first attempt at audio storytelling (think This American Life or narrative podcasts like RadioLab). I’d love to start using this medium as a way to share stories about my travels and other life experiences.

I’ve been listening to a lot of audio stories recently, and taking a few workshops about the craft. I still have a lot to learn, but I decided to just dive in and start somewhere. It’s OK (and kind of fun) to be a beginner.

There are many stories to tell about my two weeks in Sicily, and I hope to share more soon. But I thought I would start with this little adventure from the beginning of the trip, which coincided with my wedding anniversary. 

I had a great time putting this story together - not only creating the narration, but also using some of my randomly collected audio, and excerpts from an on-the-spot interview.

I’d really love to hear what you think.

Thanks so much – and happy listening!

p.s. You can see additional photos related to this story (and from the rest of our trip) on my Instagram profile.

Such an honor to have been a guest on The Trip That Changed Me podcast! It’s a great show that regularly features well-known travelers. This episode aired a few weeks ago and I’m finally sharing it here.

I talked with host Esme Benjamin about my trip last year to Charleston, and my experience going with distant cousins to the place where our ancestors were enslaved. I thought you might want to take a listen.

If you haven’t listened to The Trip That Changed Me podcast before, I highly recommend it. Here is the official description:

Captivating conversations featuring people whose lives have quite literally been changed by travel: businesses have been inspired, love stories have begun, perspectives have widened, life purposes have been found, and new beginnings have been discovered. The Trip That Changed Me, brought to you by Full-Time Travel, features a bi-weekly interview with entrepreneurs, entertainers, activists, authors, influencers, and everyday adventurers, recounting the personal tales of life-changing travel — uplifting stories that will inspire listeners to take on the world.

In other news, I’m working on a short audio story from Sicily that I hope to share with you in the coming weeks. Keep an eye on your inbox.

Meanwhile I’ll leave you with a quote from Annie Lennox :

“Our ancestors are totally essential to our every waking moments, although most of us don’t have the faintest idea about their lives, their trials, their hardships or challenges.”

Without our ancestors, we wouldn’t exist. And most of us don’t really know much about them. I invite you to dig into your family history and find out more about the people who came before you. You might be surprised by what you discover.

It’s a different kind of journey, and it may change you in ways that are hard to anticipate. Researching my ancestors, and going to the places that they were from, has definitely changed me.

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When June comes I can’t help but think of my adoptive father, Bill Womack. 

His birthday was June 14. Fathers Day came soon after. And as a gay man who worked to change the field of child psychiatry to better meet the needs of LGBTQ+ youth, he loved that June was also Pride month. 

So June was his month. And it still feels like his month, over two years after his death.

My dad and I were incredibly close. Best friends kind of close. He was the greatest listener (psychiatrists usually are), and my biggest supporter. He loved travel, jazz, Broadway plays and exquisite cuisine. Over the decades we shared countless meals, trips, shows and conversations. He’s part of why I love to go to new places (and stay in fancy hotels). 

After he retired, I helped him travel – to Texas, New York, Hawaii, Brazil, France, Portugal, the Caribbean. I’m so glad I did. So many precious moments.

His laugh was special – amazing, loud and infectious. As a child I never worried at large parties, knowing I could find him if I just stopped for a moment and waited. There it would be, that booming beacon. I think now that as an adoptee it was important for me to have that kind of security. He was always findable. He was always there.

Until he wasn’t. The laugh silenced. The dinners over. No more going over to help him weekly, then almost daily towards the end. The hole he leaves in my life is immense. There really are no words to describe how it feels. I’ve tried with poetry, in conversations - but I can’t fully capture it.

But I pull him close when I can, the memory of him. Every morning, when I sit down to meditate, I put on the gold chain he wore every day under his shirt – the one with the two buddhas he and a dear friend got in Thailand back in the 90s. A photo of us together when I was in my 20s sits on my desk, just past the James Baldwin candle that I light when I write. He’s laughing (of course) and I’m sitting next to and a little behind him, with my hand draped around his shoulder. I’m smiling and squinting in the sunlight.  

I like to think we’re still together in some way, that he’s next to me as I move through life’s challenges – buoying me with his laugh, reassuring me with his calm, supportive and loving energy. And sometimes I do feel him, the essence of him. Then I know he’s still looking out for me, still listening when I talk to him. Still giving me advice from beyond.

I’ll always be grateful we were given to each other, two only children who suffered losses early in life. The love and closeness we shared was such a blessing for both of us.

So it’s June. And this year I want to honor my dad by sharing a digital story I made about him in 2010, during a workshop I attended for work. I ended up giving it to him for his birthday that year. And 11 years later, I played it at his celebration of life.  

Besides being my dad, he was an amazing man - a survivor, a pioneer, someone who contributed deeply to his field, and who helped countless families in his community. He was definitely my hero, and I talk about one of the reasons why in this story. 

So here’s to you Papa. You will always be an indelible part of my life’s journey, and a deeply important part of my roots. I remember you, I miss you, I love you.

Please feel free to share them, and I always welcome feedback. Thank you!

The Challenges of Black Genealogy: When Black history gets personal

On April 12, I gave a talk as part of the University of Idaho’s Black Lives Matter Speaker Series. I shared some of my adoptee journey, and talked about the challenges that come when your lineage includes enslaved people. I also share genealogy and DNA travel resources.

Nurturing Our Roots with Dr. Antoinette Harrell

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On April 18, I joined Dr. Harrell, a well known historian, genealogist and activist, on her weekly live show Nurturing Our Roots, which focuses on Black genealogy. I shared my adoptee story, and upcoming genealogy and heritage travel plans.

Listen in (button above) to find out where I’ve been, some recommendations for Black history month, what’s inspiring me, and what’s brewing on the horizon.

I’ve included all mentioned links below.

Black History

Ep 63 | Joy Barnett: Solo Black History Road Trips - Jet Set Lisette

The American Blackstory - by Joy Barnett

Ep 64 | Kelly McCoy: Cultural Heritage & Adventure Travel - Jet Set Lisette

Ep 65 | Antoinette Harrell: Genealogy Research Travel - Jet Set Lisette

International African American Museum

Afro Latino Talks with Kim Haas: Patricia Ann Talley Interview (plus my interview with Kim Haas).

Watch Zora Neale Hurston: Claiming a Space | American Experience | Official Site | PBS

What’s Inspiring Me

Read, Write & Create - a sanctuary for BIPOC writers created by Lori Tharps. (Here’s my interview with Lori on the Globetrotter Lounge podcast.)

I highly recommend the book From Scratch – the author reads it on Audible. Afterwards you can watch the Netflix version of the story.

Tembi Locke - author, producer, actress, and more. (Loved her interview on Lori’s podcast).

The Isolation Journals with Suleika Jaouad

A newsletter for people seeking to transform life's interruptions into creative grist

Your Elusive Creative Genius - a TED talk by Elizabeth Gilbert.

Museo Frida Kahlo - all things Frida.

Coming Up

The Challenge of Black Genealogy: When Black History Gets Personal - a talk I will be giving in April 2023 as part of University of Idaho’s Black Lives Matter Speaker Series.

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Is there anything specific you’d like to learn from me or have me discuss? Some examples: genealogy, using ancestry to find people, planning DNA travel, health and travel, etc. I may add some new parts to this newsletter, and I’m open to ideas and requests. Let me know in the comments. 🙏🏾

At the beginning of August, my biological uncle Robert and I attended the 2022 Gamble family reunion, held in Charleston, South Carolina. Black Gamble descendants have been meeting annually since the 1970s, in different places around the country.  We felt lucky to be able to go to this one in South Carolina since it included a trip to the small rural crossroads town of Nesmith, about an hour and a half north of Charleston in Williamsburg County. Nesmith was where our enslaved ancestors were held by the white Gamble family; this would be my very first time traveling to a place where some of my biological ancestors lived.

We initially had a lovely 3 day stay in historic downtown Charleston, in a beautiful rental co-owned by Karen Parson, the delightful owner of Parson Inn.  One of my priorities during my genealogical travels is to support BIPOC-woman-owned businesses, like Karen’s. She has done an amazing job of saving and restoring historic homes in what was historically a Black community during legalized segregation and after. I loved meeting Karen and seeing the important work she is doing and the beautiful spaces she has created. If you are headed to Charleston I highly recommend booking a stay with her.

Our 3 bedroom unit, across the street from the Parson Inn, had beautiful, ornate details, hardwood floors, a stately fireplace in the living room, spacious and comfortable bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms, and a huge kitchen with all the amenities. It’s very centrally located near the Medical University of South Carolina and not far from the College of Charleston. It was perfect as our cousin Bobbi and her husband drove from Georgia to spend a few days with us– we made great use of all three bedrooms.

I loved exploring the neighborhood and taking in the Charleston architecture, which was directly influenced by Barbados architectural styles – very unique in character with porches running down the sides of houses, instead of on the front. There was a certain charm and Southern aesthetic to the city that I hadn’t experienced before. I also quickly learned that right below its beautiful exterior is a deeply disturbing and ugly history. The ornate and beautiful architecture is inexorably tied to the slave trade and rice plantation industry, both of which made Charleston the richest city in the country for many decades.

During those first few days, we all went on an incredible 2.5 hour Charleston Black History tour given by Al Miller of Sites and Insight Tours. We drove by plantations, an old sacred burial site for African slaves, and stopped to visit the stunningly beautiful and immense 400 year old Angel Oak Tree.

We then drove onto some of the local sea islands and saw black churches that have been there for centuries. We crossed bridges over the beautiful lush sea grasses that the Gullah Geechee people use to make baskets, using the same basketry art that was brought from Africa by their ancestors. I now understand how strongly Gullah culture is connected to African culture – even after more than 400 years. They are still considered the most Africanized or Black culture group in the United States.

So many African Americans can trace their roots back to South Carolina. My uncle and I do, not only through the Gamble family, but also my grandmother’s maternal line – which African Ancestry DNA testing shows had to have included a Mende or Temne tribal woman from present-day Sierra Leone. There is a very strong connection between South Carolina and the wider West African region that stretches from Senegal to Sierra Leone, as the Gullah Geechee culture most closely resembles Mende culture (Watch the documentaries Family Across the Sea and/or The Language You Cry In for more about this connection).

As I heard about the Gullah people, took in the passing landscape, saw the plantations, and felt the profound southern heat, I started to more deeply understand where I come from, and my inextricable ties to South Carolina. As we drove by the communities on the sea island that day, I was struck by how people have remained there on inherited land passed down family to family, connected to their history. And I felt grateful to finally be connecting to mine.

We finished the tour back in historic Charleston, learning about people important to local Black history and hearing the fascinating (and often disturbing) stories behind the beautiful buildings. Many of the homes still have the original slave quarters visible in the back. There was a particular home that had terrifying spikes on their wrought iron fence to keep Black people out. At one point in the seventeenth century, the population in Charleston was 4:1 Blacks to Whites, so there was a constant fear of slave uprisings.

Towards the end of the tour we stopped at the Battery, which is the waterfront fort looking out across the Atlantic. You can’t see Africa, but you know it’s there. It hit me how many people were shackled and brought here, including my ancestor, the Mende woman, whose name I will never know. My uncle and I were silent looking out over the water. What do you say while contemplating the devastation and brutality that your ancestral family members had to endure?

The next day we spent our last afternoon in old Charleston at the Avery Research Center for African American History and Culture, where I did some genealogy research and interviewed Erica Veal, Research Archivist and Interpretation Coordinator, about Black history in Charleston. The center’s mission is to collect, preserve and promote the history of the African Diaspora with a focus on the South Carolina Low Country. You can listen to the informal, yet extremely informative interview in my latest audio newsletter.

After that we drove out towards the airport to stay a few nights at the hotel where the Gamble family reunion was being held. It was a small gathering. In pre-pandemic times reunions were attended by up to 300 people, but this year there were 45 or 50 attendees. I was excited to finally meet Raimonda Martin in person. She was one of the original founders of the family reunions, and author of an amazing and well-researched genealogy book about the Black Gambles. She had started her research in the 80s, when many elders were still alive, confirming oral family histories that went back to slavery days. Without Raimonda I wouldn’t know as much as I do about my ancestors. I’m so grateful to her and her work.

When we checked in, we were each given a t-shirt that had photos of the seven siblings who were the children of slave mother, Mary. Mary was the daughter of Lizette Gamble, my fifth great grandmother – whose name I miraculously share despite my adoptive parents having absolutely no knowledge about my biological family and history.

These seven siblings were all enslaved by the White Gamble family. They were left in a will to the slave master’s children, and were brought to Arkansas when some of the Gamble sons bought property there right before the civil war. My family descends from John Gamble, one of the seven siblings. He looks pretty much like a white man (I know I don’t have to explain why). John Gamble lived the rest of his life in Arkansas. His offspring did as well, including my grandmother. Even my biological father and uncle were born in Arkansas – although they left when they were very young.

The next day, after getting settled and meeting many cousins for the first time, we donned our new t-shirts and boarded a tour bus to drive the hour and a half up to Nesmith. They gave us navy blue face masks to match our shirts. On the front of the t-shirt, above the photo of the siblings, it read “We stand upon our ancestors’ hopes and prayers.” And on the back, it said “We are the dreams of our ancestors.”

I had so many feelings on that bus, seeing those words on t-shirts all around me, worn by people who were all my biological cousins. People I had never met before, but who like me descended from enslaved people who had made it through the unimaginable. As an adoptee, I had never imagined I would get to have this experience. I never thought I would know who my birth parents were, let alone meet distant cousins. Being on a bus with them, headed towards the land where our ancestors toiled and worked in this hot, brutal yet lush climate, was simply unbelievable.

The heat. I keep talking about it. The South Carolina heat is no joke in August. You really can’t stay in the sun – it’s almost intolerable, especially with the humidity. Then to imagine working outside as an enslaved person…. I just kept thinking of the strength and resilience that it would require. Sheer fortitude. And how many I’m sure didn’t make it. I was being given a deeper understanding of what my ancestors went through – one I wouldn’t have fully grasped if I would have come in the winter. Because of that I was glad to be in the heat. I could feel the truth of things in my bones.

Once we reached Williamsburg County, we first drove by the land where our ancestors once worked tobacco and cotton fields. We then briefly stopped at a church in Nesmith that had been built by one of the original seven siblings. We took a group photo then headed to the Black-owned Williams Muscadine Vineyard to use their bathroom. It turned into an unplanned and meaningful experience.

Some of us ended up under a ramada next to an old dilapidated farmhouse, sitting and fanning ourselves in the heat. One of the owners, a woman named Cassandra, offered to share the history of the area and her vineyard. She apparently also has started a local museum dedicated to Black history in Williamsburg County.  We sat rapt with attention as she started sharing stories and memories.

The grapes had been planted by her father David Williams, who was the son of Mary Pressley Nesmith Wiliams. Mary’s family had been given the land after slavery ended, and initially they still grew tobacco and cotton. But Mr. Williams had the idea to plant grapes in his later years, and many decades later it is a thriving vineyard.…its special Muscadine grapes known for their flavor and health properties.  This was the story of many local Black families. The white families had left after slavery, selling or giving the land to the Black people who actually knew how to grow the crops.

Cassandra told fascinating stories about her grandmother Mary, including that she had died in the historic old home next to us (Cassandra herself had been born in the same house). Mary had become a widow with 11 children, and then married a widower with 10 children. They had one child together – for a total of 22 children. At one point up to 19 people had been living in that small farmhouse, now an official heritage site.

That moment of storytelling was priceless to me. We couldn’t go to the home where our ancestors lived, but here we were just down the road hearing a similar family story while listening to the crickets, taking in the rich smells and feeling the thick heat. I’ll never forget it – sitting with my cousins and listening to stories of the past. It cemented for me why it’s important to travel to the places where your ancestors lived. It gives a perspective and understanding that you simply can’t get any other way.

I will be returning to South Carolina, and digging further into its history. It feels like this is just the beginning of my relationship to this place, with its deep connection to Sierra Leone, one of my African homelands. This trip felt like the perfect starting point for my Traveling My Roots project. It was meant to be.

This post 2022 Gamble Family Reunion in South Carolina appeared first on Traveling My Roots.

In this audio newsletter I start by giving some brief updates about my project and talking about my recent trip to Charleston, South Carolina – a place that I will definitely return to in upcoming months.

I also share an informal, yet extremely informative interview with Erica Veal, Research Archivist and Interpretation Coordinator at Charleston’s Avery Research Center for African American History & Culture. Their mission is to collect, preserve and promote the history of the African Diaspora with a focus on the South Carolina Low Country.

This conversation gives insight into why I’m feeling grateful that my first biological ancestral trip ended up being in Charleston. It’s quickly becoming one of the most important places for me in the United States. It was the starting point for many of my enslaved ancestors and, as Erica shares, for much of African-American culture. And it is considered to still be one of the most Africanized cities/cultural areas in the US.

I’m so glad that my Uncle Robert and I stopped in to talk with Erica (you’ll briefly hear him during the interview). I learned so much, and it cemented why I need to keep learning about the Low Country, and head back to do more historical and genealogical research.

During the interview, Erica Veal shares:

• The history of the Avery Research Center

• Why the history of slavery is unique in the South Carolina Low Country

• What makes Charleston’s culture (past and present) unique

• How the local Gullah-Geechee culture has influenced both African-American and mainstream American culture.

• Why the African-rooted Gullah-Geechee culture has had so much longevity

• Tips and resources for researching enslaved ancestors from South Carolina

Please let me know what you think of the clip - I always appreciate feedback. You can reply to this email, or click the comment link below.

And if you’ve found your way to this newsletter but are not yet subscribed, let me help with that:

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Resources Mentioned

• Finding Your Roots with Henry Louis Gates Jr.

• Family Search

• Family Across the Sea | Folkstreams

• McLeod Plantation

• Middleton Place

• Down by the Riverside: A South Carolina Slave Community

• The Crucible of Carolina: Essays in the Development of Gullah Language and Culture

• Grass Roots: African Origins of an American Art

• Africanisms in the Gullah Dialect (Southern Classics)

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This Memorial Day I’m thinking about a group of heroic soldiers from deep in our country’s history. Nearly 180,000 free Black men and escaped slaves served in the Union Army during the Civil War. They joined what was officially called the United States Colored Troops, usually led by white officers.

The Black regiments were often assigned the worst jobs (like digging trenches), were paid less than white soldiers, were given inferior equipment, and had unequal medical treatment in racially segregated hospitals.

“Despite the inequality, the Black troops in Union blue had proven themselves to be courageous, effective soldiers. Black soldiers, including more than a dozen Congressional Medal of Honor winners, fought in 449 Civil War battles. More than one-third of them died during the war. Through their courage and sacrifice, these Black men helped press the African-American fight for equality.”

Constitutional Rights Foundation website. ⠀

One of my 4th great grandfathers was a man named Moses Pennington. Born into slavery, he lived most of his life in Arkansas – before and after being freed. In my search for information about him I came across a Moses Pennington, born around the same time, who served in the 115th regiment of the Colored Troops.

While in D.C. last month, I stopped at the African American Civil War Soldier memorial, and found his name listed there among thousands of other men. I now think that this Moses may have actually been a cousin of my 4th great grandfather. I’m still researching the facts. Either way, he was most likely family.

In the meantime, as I go through Civil War records I’m learning more about the important history of the troops, and all that they faced while fighting for their freedom. I’m deeply proud that one of my ancestors may have fought for the Union in pursuit of equality. My deepest respect to all the soldiers of the U.S. Colored Troops – I honor and thank them for their sacrifices and courage.

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When my adoptive father attended UVA’s medical school from 1957-1961, Charlottesville was segregated. He wasn’t allowed to eat in restaurants or go to movie theaters. He wasn’t allowed to visit Monticello, US President (and UVA founder) Thomas Jefferson’s home.

According to my dad in a book chapter about his time there, “There were only two places close to the University I could eat – the University Cafeteria and the sandwich shop next door.”

I’m pretty sure that the sandwich shop he was referring to was “The White Spot.” (Wow – the name). It still sits across from the UVA hospital in the middle of “The Corner”, a thriving and historic business area that serves the university population.

When I interviewed Teresa Walker Price and her son Frank (see previous post), Frank remembered that at the White Spot in 1961, “you could go in and sit on the radiator, but you couldn’t sit at the counter.” The rest of Corner’s shops and restaurants wouldn’t let Blacks in at all.

We were leaving campus when I spotted it. We stopped to take photos of one of the few sanctuaries for my dad during his medical school career. This place, the cafeteria, the Jackson and Walker homes, and one nightclub outside the city limits were the sum total of his social venues. It wasn’t much, but at least it was something.

I stood in front of the restaurant, trying to imagine him here. Being here physically brought the story much more to life. As people of every ethnicity went in and out of the businesses on the block, I was glad that students no longer have to suffer the type of isolating racism my dad and other Black students had to face during the early days of integration.

Racism is not gone – the latest devastating news out of Buffalo drives that painfully home. And the fact that the White Spot is still here was a reminder that segregation wasn’t that long ago. We still have a long way to go, but at least there has been movement forward.

I felt deeply grateful to those brave enough to be “firsts” as the dark era of segregation came to a close. Heroes.

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One of the highlights of my time in Charlottesville, VA was spending a few hours with Teresa Walker Price.

When my adoptive dad talked about his time at UVA, Teresa usually came up. She was one of a few allies the Black medical students had at a time when Blacks weren’t allowed in Charlottesville’s restaurants, theaters and nightclubs. In a chapter about his UVA experience he wrote:

“[Teresa Walker] hosted many social events for African American graduate students. Teresa’s brother Eddie had a nightclub outside the city limits that was specifically for Black clientele. On the weekends we would go there and dance. The Walkers had a reputation for being an anchor for Black students. Their door was always open in you needed a place to escape, if you were hungry or simply needed someone to talk to.”

Teresa is now 96 and still sharp as a tack. She remembered my dad perfectly when I called her, and she invited me to visit her. She still lived in the same house where the Black students would hang out decades ago. She grew up in that house, and had never left.

She and her son reminisced about the social events, remembering my dad’s big laugh and warmth. They shared stories about Charlottesville during segregation, and about their own Black family’s local history. I was so happy to spend time with her, and tell her about my dad’s later years. I was able to audio record most of it (I hope to share some of that conversation in a future newsletter).

Best of all, we laughed a lot – something I needed after the emotional recognition ceremony a few hours before. My dad always loved a good laugh… I’m imagined him watching and chuckling along with us.

I’m so grateful to Teresa, and amazed at her vibrant energy and intact memory. What a treasure. Her story and what she gave to her community are truly an inspiration.

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One of the main reasons we went to Virginia last month was to attend University of Virginia’s inaugural Black Medical Alumni Weekend. It originally had been scheduled for June 2020, and my adoptive father, Bill Womack, had been invited as alumni. But it was postponed due to the pandemic, and then he passed away at the end of that year. ⠀

I was invited to attend the rescheduled event (April 8-10, 2022) and told that they would be honoring him at a recognition ceremony. It was also the start of the new William M Womack MD Scholarship, now in place for Black medical students attending UVA . ⠀

My dad’s experience becoming a doctor is why he is one of my heroes. The 1954 Brown vs. Board of Education ruling ended racial segregation in public schools, allowing his admittance in 1957 to the University of Virginia Medical School. He was one of the first Black medical students to attend UVA.

Despite the fact that he wasn’t allowed to eat at Charlottesville restaurants, and was ostracized and antagonized by white students and faculty, he made the Dean’s List his first year. He persevered and received his medical degree in 1961 at the age of 25.

It was an emotional yet uplifting weekend. I cried through my unplanned speech at the recognition ceremony, but was so happy that the UVA Medical Alumni Association had placed a brick on campus in his honor. We explored the beautiful and historic university, but couldn’t ignore its dark history of being built and served by slaves, and designed by slave owning Thomas Jefferson.

Overall I loved meeting so many wonderful, accomplished alumni and students, and making new friends. I felt a part of the UVA family. And I felt my dad’s presence all weekend, as we honored him and his amazing life.

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I’m back with another newsletter - and my first true “sound bite from the road.” I recorded it on the first morning of my first Traveling My Roots trip last month. I think it captures the flavor of what this project is about.

What you’ll hear is raw, mostly unedited audio of me and my husband walking in Lynchburg, Virginia. We start on centrally located 5th street (one of the main Black business areas during segregation), then make our way towards 3rd & Federal Street where my adoptive dad’s childhood home still stands.

I had never visited it before, and it was also my first time exploring my dad’s hometown neighborhood. It’s only been 18 months since he died, so it was an emotional day and trip. But I’m so glad I went to Virginia to honor him, and learn more about his life.

You can see photos of the house and learn more about its history in this post on Instagram, plus I’m posting additional photos from our walk later today. (Read earlier posts from the trip too, and be sure to follow me on IG if you don’t already).

This is what I’ll be doing from now on – sharing bits of audio to give you a sense of my travel experiences and discoveries. I hope you’ll find it interesting. It’s a little taste of what I plan to craft into a larger narrative podcast.

Please let me know what you think of the clip - I always appreciate feedback. You can reply to this email, or click the Comment link below.

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What I’m Reading

I’m currently reading an unusual book that I bought during my visit to Lynchburg’s small but impressive Legacy Museum of African American History:

Ten on Tin: My Mckinley Street Years 1950-1960 (a coming of age on Tinbridge Hill) is a memoir written by someone who grew up in the same historically black neighborhood as my dad. My grandmother, Fannie Womack is mentioned by name in the book, as the author lived a few minutes from her house and was later in her class at Dunbar High School. So far it’s a great read.

All the Socials

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During our last morning in Lynchburg we stopped by the Old City Cemetery on a mission to find the resting place of my adoptive great-grandfather William R. Smith (1852-1928) and his wife, Rosa Crawford Smith (1865-1945). You can read more about them in my post about visiting my dad’s childhood home at 301 Federal Street

Traveling My Roots

301 Federal Street

I didn’t know how I felt standing in front of my adoptive dad’s childhood home on the corner of 3rd & Federal St., Lynchburg, VA. It was strange to be here without him, visiting a place he didn’t feel inclined to take me to or spend time talking about. I think we may have driven by once after my grandmother died in 1988, but it’s more of a supposition t…

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4 years ago · Lisette Austin

Established in 1806, Old City Cemetery is the oldest municipal cemetery in Virginia. Museums on site help tell the stories of the nearly 20,000 diverse souls buried there. It is also a 27-acre public garden, “history park,” and wedding venue located in the heart of Lynchburg, and is apparently the city’s most visited historic site.
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I had discovered that the Smiths were buried here from online Ancestry records, which included some plot details. But it proved very difficult to find them as the cemetery map gave general locations, and there weren’t clear section boundary marker. One of the staff kindly came out to help us look, and finally it was my husband Will who spotted the gravesite.

There was a single marker with William’s name on it. None of their other children were buried here, except one. On the other side of the cedar tree was a small marker for a son I had never personally heard about, but whom I found in the 1900 census. At the time, John Lee Smith was 2 years old, born in 1997. This made sense as my grandmother Fannie, the youngest, was born in 1900.

Since he never appeared in any other records, I guessed he had died as a child. The marker confirmed that he died in 1901. But the birth year did not match what was in the census. Since the Smiths are all gone, I may never know what hned.

I quietaid my respects to my great-grandparents, thanking them for raising their daughter, the driving force behind all of my dad’s achievements. Billy had died before my dad, his namesake, was born. Rosa died when when my dad was 8. But they still were part of who he became, which meant they greatly blessed me.

Soon afterwards we left the cemetery, and later that afternoon drove to Charlottesville. Our time in Lynchburg felt complete.

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Two of my Womack cousins came to meet us in Virginia. My dad didn’t talk much about his childhood, but he did tell me about the Branfords. He loved going to NYC in the summers to visit cousins Walter (Sonny) Branford and his brother George (Smitty). That’s when my dad first fell in love with NYC, a city he regularly visited the rest of his life to attend Broadway plays, see friends and eat fabulous meals.

After the elder Branfords passed away, my dad would sometimes mention Sonny’s sons: Scott and Phillip. l discovered toward the ends of my dad’s life that Phil shared my love of genealogy, and could answer the questions we had about the Womack family. We started to occasionally talk on the phone.

That new connection led to Scott, Phil and their wives joining us in Lynchburg. One day we explored neighboring Appomattox County, including a stop at historic Appomattox Courthouse (where General Lee surrendered to General Grant) only a few days shy of the 157th anniversary of the end of the Civil War.

But the highlight was visiting Pamplin, the rural town where the large Womack family, including my grandfather Samuel Womack, lived and died. My dad wasn’t raised by him, but he did visit some summers. I had heard about some of his many aunts and uncles –especially his aunts Wilsie and Geneva.

Pamplin is now a deserted town, population 73. But it’s where most of the Womacks are buried, and where many of the family homes are still intact. We stopped at key spots, including where Aunt Geneva’s home once stood, and also found Aunt Wilsie’s house. I have a photo of my dad in a car in front of her home, something I figured out only after being there myself.

As we explored, Scott and Phil regaled us with stories, many of which I recorded. They spent summers in Pamplin during their childhood, and knew so much more about the Womacks than I (or maybe even my dad) ever knew. We stood by their graves as Phil and Scott reminisced about each one, me with mic in hand.

That day old memories were revisited, and together we made new ones. It truly was a precious day.

Most photos by Will Austin.

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