The Beloved Matriarchs

Every year on the Saturday before Memorial Day, my mother and I find our way to a cemetery in Williamstown, Kentucky. We have made this trek for as long as I can remember. 

When I was very young, my grandmother and my great-grandmother came along as well, telling us the stories of those who had gone before. . . teaching us how to carry out this ritual of remembering that the women in my family have practiced for generations.

This year I realized that my mom and I now hold the spaces that my grandmother and great-grandmother once held. Our status of grandmother and great-grandmother, has caused us to move slower over the hills in the cemetery than we did just a few years ago. Yet somehow, as we place flowers on all the graves, we both feel young again as we remember bananas cut up in jello, lemon drops in the candy jar, and food coloring in angel food cakes -- all reminders of a sometimes odd, but always profound, expression our grandmothers' love for the granddaughters my mother and I used to be.

Buried in this cemetery along with countless other loved ones are my maternal grandmother, Mildred Dunn, her mother, Minnie Kinmon, her mother, Clara Mershon and her mother, Sophia Nuxal.

None in this long line of women were your warm, fuzzy types. (My grandfather's DNA served to add a little softness to the gene pool that produced my mother, resulting in a wonderful mix of strength and tenderness that my grandmothers never knew.)

This week I was able to watch the 103 year old woman proudly cast her state's votes for Hillary Clinton's nomination. The broadcaster reported that women were still being denied the right to vote when she was born and now her goal is to live until November to pull the lever for a woman.

As I continued watching until the official nomination, I couldn't help but think of the hootin' and hollerin' that was going on in my grandmothers section of the cemetery.

You see, these grandmothers of mine were not your typical women of the day. They were not Sunday School teachers. They did not serve as hostesses for Women's meetings. They were not interested  in talking about their feelings or collaborating with others, and winning a popularity contest was not on their to-do lists. (Those of you who know me, but didn't know them are starting to understand me a little more but I digress.)

My grandmothers did not "check with their husbands" when making a decision and while they did not hold jobs in businesses or factories, they most certainly worked outside of their homes as farmers. They were each driven to  prove their worth in the male-dominated world they inhabited.

These women not only bought and raised the chickens, but killed and fried the chickens, ate the chickens, then wiped out the skillet and put it away. Their intelligence and work-ethic were only surpassed by their confidence and strong-will.

They were strong mothers as well who expected more from their daughters than any of their sons. None of them were coddlers or enablers of their little girls. They did not dream of strong, handsome men to save their daughters. Their dream was for their daughters to be able to save themselves. Even a hundred years ago, my grandmothers simply wanted an equal world for their daughters.

Watching Hillary be nominated gave me hope that in the next generation those who have been marginalized will no longer have to work harder and smarter to prove themselves equal. They will just be equal.

I'm thankful for each of my grandmothers and the lessons they have left behind. In November, when I vote for Hillary, I won't be alone in the booth -- the cemetery in Williamstown will be empty of my grandmothers on that date because their spirits will be with their granddaughter.

The Untold Stories of My Family Tree

When my oldest child was born nearly 30 years ago, his middle-Eastern born pediatrician, held him up in his first few minutes of life, looked at Sam and pronounced, "You are a healthy, white male born to a middle-class family. . . . No excuses, my friend!"

Now since Sam's parents were taking him home to a basement apartment, with no savings account and wondering how we would pay our insurance deductible, I could have argued the middle-class part, but even then, my young 24 year old self knew the doctor was right. Much could (and should) be expected of this 9 lb. 5 oz. wonder -- for after all, in a very real sense, by just the roll of some cosmic dice, he had already won the lottery. Quite honestly, though most of us don't like to admit it, he was born into a culture of white privilege. So was I. So were my parents. And their parents. . . .

The term "White Privilege" doesn't roll off my tongue easily. It feels shameful and racist. It makes me feel defensive and I want to clarify it by saying, "Well, it's not my fault."

And maybe that's true -- maybe it's not my fault. But to say that my family has not benefitted from white privilege would be a lie.

I love family history and am proud (of most) of those who have paved the way for me. As I sit here with the luxury of being able to chill and think and write, I can't help but be grateful for all of the tobacco that was cut and housed in my grandpa's barn. I'm thankful for all of the coal that was dug and hauled off the mountain. Both of which, in a very direct sense, have given me this very full life I live.

I'm also more than a little proud that I have discovered no slave ownership in searching our family tree. (Although that could have more to do with place and poverty than their righteous indignation that I choose to believe on occasion.)  My great, great grandfather, William Martin, even fought for the Union side of the Army during the Civil War, although honestly, I sometimes wonder if it was out of belief or need for a pension!

There are no stories of black maids in my family's oral history. In fact, my own maternal grandmother quit school to become another family's maid for 75 cents a week. I've found no evidence of KKK membership or any other blatant racism.

On the other hand, I have heard more than my share of stories of poverty, losing farms to the depression, borrowing money for doctors' visits, eating more soup beans than anyone should have to eat, wearing shoes that were too big or too small. I listen to them all and I treasure them and some day I will tell them to my grandson, Bo, because I want him to be in awe of the hard work and love that have created him and me.

My family could never be accused of being born with a silver spoon in its mouth and wealth is where I'm more comfortable with the word privilege. But, when I listen for the stories that weren't told, it is clear that our white skin brought more privilege than any silver spoon could.

You see, there are no stories of our children being sold, or uncles being lynched without cause or trial. My grandmother did not go to the woods to use the bathroom but went to the same outhouse as the people she cleaned house for and neither of my grandpa's had to avert their eyes to the ground when they applied for a job. Even in their patched overalls or their faces covered with coal dust, my grandpa's did not walk around to the back door of the store.

My dad could smile at any girl, and while she might not have smiled back, his life was not at risk.

My parents went to the better school and sat in the front of the movie theater (when they could come up with the 25 cents!)

As a teenager, I might have told Mr. Jenkins, my Geometry teacher, under my breath, of course, that , he had no idea what he was talking about. (My stomach hurts just writing that!) Mr. Jenkins met with me after class to reprimand me privately. I was not sent to the office or publicly humiliated for stirring up trouble or being disrespectful.

Even today, I can teach my own white sons to question authority when something doesn't seem right.  No security person blatantly follows them at the mall. I don't worry that they will be treated differently. I don't worry that hidden prejudice will keep them from the school or job or house they want. I worry that they will walk away with speeding ticket and won't have their proof of insurance when pulled over, but I don't worry that their rolling eyes or even rude behavior might cause a police officer to fear for his or her own life, putting my sons' lives on the line.

Those are the stories of my family's tree that aren't shared at family reunions. They are the stories that bear witness to the White Privilege that my family has experienced.

It still doesn't sit well with me, but it is truth.

Every good rehab program says the first step is in owning your issue, so there you go. I have benefitted and continue to benefit from white privilege.

What haunts me now is how do I use it to bring justice for us all?