“When an elder dies, a library burns.”
African proverb
I was born in Asheville, North Carolina, and was raised primarily by my grandparents. This meant that my world was full of things loved by Southern African American elders. For over two decades, I accompanied my grandparents to country buffets all over the South, watching them pour packets of sugar into white ceramic cups of steaming coffee—the kinds of cups that those lovely little places are known for.
We’d meet up with Deacon and Mrs. Splawn from church, and share a meal at Shoney’s. Or, we’d head to J&S Cafeteria for Sunday dinner, where half of Black Asheville would stop by our table to extend their greetings to Reverend and Mrs. Avery (and me). When Aunt Elsie and Uncle Curt would come to town, Bojangles was the preferred fare, eating inside next to the window so we could observe the comings and goings of the town before us. And always, I was there: my grandparents’ tiny companion. I knew better than to get into “grown folks business,” so as they talked, I would busy myself with coloring, reading, or, later, my cell phone. But I was always listening.
I listened to my grandparents and their friends tell stories of their youth, stories of festivals and parties long since past, stories of what had happened at church on a given day decades prior, and various others. Some stories were steeped in humor, some tinged with disbelief, others told solemnly. There were many that I could relate to, like the stories my grandmother told about growing up on a farm, and playing outdoors with her siblings. I didn’t know what the words sharecropping or debt meant at the time, but I definitely understood “hide and seek.”
My granddaddy loved telling the story of how nervous he had been to go to my grandmother’s father and ask for her hand in marriage. I could just see the two of them, young and in love, graduates of Shaw University in Raleigh, NC, excited about building their lives together. Whenever he would talk about those days, my granddaddy would beam and laugh, and he’d have the whole room smiling along with him.
Then, there were the stories that I couldn’t understand. They were stories about a world that no longer existed, a world that was hard for me to even imagine. It was ruled by somebody named Jim Crow. In these stories, my grandparents had to jump off the sidewalk when a white person walked by. In these stories, when my grandmother visited the Ambassador Theater in Raleigh as a college student, she had to sit in the balcony because Black folks weren’t allowed on the ground level. These stories saw my family placed under police protection in the sixties because of their work in the Civil Rights Movement, while evil people placed bombs under their cars to stop them from protesting.
I couldn’t imagine anyone seeing my grandparents as something other than what I knew them to be: kind, generous, exceedingly intelligent, brave, highly capable people. Racism, at its core, is nonsensical. And so, as a young girl, I struggled to make sense of the senseless. Why had my grandparents been treated that way?
My grandmother passed away in 2011. It occurred to me then that, if my family hadn’t been listening to her stories and her life advice, it would have been gone forever. I realized then the importance of documenting the things that seem ordinary to us, because one day, our “ordinary” will be “history” to someone else. Someone yet to be born will look back and wonder, “What was it like?”
This is especially true for African Americans, because for centuries in this country, we were not able to document and preserve our own stories. Our ancestors were brought to America in chains, torn from their native land, languages, and communities. Forbidden from learning to read or write, they did what they had to do to survive American slavery. I realized how privileged I was to be living in a time where I can read and write, seek higher education, and speak the truth about my own experiences. So, I decided to use that privilege to do what so many generations of African Americans could not: tell the truth about history.
Following my grandmother’s death, I interviewed my granddaddy and several of my elderly family members. I interviewed people from church. I interviewed elders that I knew in the community. I interviewed for no other reason than to collect and preserve the wisdom of the elders. I’d do interviews here and there, nothing too structured or scheduled. It was something I did in my spare time, and I enjoyed hearing people talk about their lives. I started out asking the same questions of everyone to start, and I’d modify the questions asked later in the interviews, depending on what they said.
Years later, when I connected with Nick Thomas at Levine Querido and started working on this book in earnest, I realized something very peculiar that I had only half-understood earlier: a lot of African American elders didn’t want to talk about the past. I had heard of similar sentiments before—from elders whose grandparents or great-grandparents simply refused to discuss what their lives were like during slavery.
In my search for people to speak with for this book, many potential interviewees told me that they’d rather not bring history up. A 95-year-old elder in South Carolina said, “It’s best not to drum up the past. Let it lay.” An 87-year-old elder in Louisiana told me to “leave those old days alone.” I had many people agree to the interview at first, then call me back days later to withdraw. One person, an 81-year-old in Georgia, actually stopped me mid-interview, right after I’d asked the question: “Did you know anyone who was lynched?” Apologetically, she told me that she wouldn’t be going forward with her participation. “Turns out, this is all just too much for this old girl,” she remarked, before hanging up. For many African American elders, the past is just too painful to revisit.
But here are two major lessons that this process taught me as a writer and oral history curator:
One, don’t interview anyone who isn’t excited to participate and eager to share their story.
Two, the right people will come. And when they do, their contributions will be more extraordinary than anyone could have ever imagined.
I met Mr. Walt Carr at Inkwell Beach on Martha’s Vineyard and I just sensed that he had an incredible story to tell. Ms. Johnnie Booker and I are both members of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc., and we were introduced by our Soror, Muriel Buck-Evans. Her confident, commanding presence told me instantly that she would make a compelling interviewee. I met Ms. Florence Hayes while visiting Fisk University with my family. (Whenever we travel, we visit local HBCUs and support the campus bookstore by buying school apparel.) I stopped her to ask for directions to the bookstore, and her warmth was a signal to me that she would be a wonderful person to interview. While working on a project about African American land ownership in the Black Belt of Alabama, I met Mrs. Leola Joe. When I spoke with her about my efforts for this book, she said, “Oh, you need to talk to my pastor!” And that’s how I met the bold, self-assured Reverend John Kennard. These are just a few examples of how all the right people came!
We all know Dr. King, Rosa Parks, Angela Davis, and many others whose names have gone down in history. But there are people walking among us who were leaders, too … heroes, too. It took an abundance of courage to survive Jim Crow, and even more to actively participate in the Civil Rights Movement and other efforts to secure rights and opportunities for African American people. This book uplifts the lives and experiences of people that we haven’t yet heard about. And there are countless more out there.
Who are the people that you’re walking alongside every day? They have stories, too. If not documented, those stories will be lost. I encourage you, dear reader, to start interviewing your family members, community members, teachers, mentors, and everyone in between. Preserve their experiences, because there’s nothing like hearing somebody’s story in their own words. Don’t wait for others to tell it.
The title of this book comes from the Bible verse, Ecclesiastes 7:11 (NIV): “Wisdom, like an inheritance, is a good thing, and benefits those who see the sun.” The people who have entrusted all of us with these stories have given us something very valuable: their wisdom, knowledge, and life lessons.
Most of the photos included with each interview come from each elder’s personal collection, and a few are drawn from archival materials to illustrate some of the interview themes. The appendix at the back of the book offers more detail on various topics, and can be used as a starting point for further research.
Since 1619, people of African descent in this country have suffered some of the most horrifying abuses known to mankind. But the African American story is ultimately one of beauty and joy, and the fact that we are still here—living, loving, thriving—is nothing short of miraculous. The memories held within these pages are a testament to that miracle. I hope you are as empowered by these accounts as I am.