Today has been another long, good, but exhausting day with my extended family. It has taken me a while to follow the threads of various cousins’ lives to determine how they are woven in with mine into the tapestry that is our family history. It’s been a lot of fun asking various people at today’s event how they are connected to the family and then watch as the three of us (my sister Sandy always part of the conversation) try to puzzle through to figure out how we’re related. I am grateful to be learning more about my family, who they were and how who they were “back in the day” helps inform who I am now.
Today my cousin John drove us around the town of Gainesville, Georgia where the roots of much of my father’s side of the family grow deeply. Like many African Americans in this country, I am descended from slaves. It is difficult to piece together one’s genealogy when families were separated and sold, merged, joined in unofficial marriages, adoptions and very, very little was written down. At ten years old, my great, great grandmother Philis was sold to a man named Roberts and transported–along with three other children, ages 9, 7, and 4–toHall County, Georgia. We know next to nothing right now about Philis’ life before that time and thus have no real way to trace our family lineage back far enough to know who her parents might have been.
Philis eventually bore 10 children, one of whom was my great grandfather. I am slowly piecing together various elements of his life. It feels a lot like delving into a mystery, following a few leads here and there, talking to people and gradually beginning to complete the picture. It is made that much more challenging because my father and all of his generation from his father’s line has died. Still, over the course of this weekend I am have gotten a few more clues not simply about who my family was, but also about life in general in and around Gainesville, Georgia. In some ways the history of slavery and segregation in the south is not at all far removed. My cousin John grew up going to segregated schools and enduring some of the daily indignities that African American people faced in the south in the 1950s and 60s. Things weren’t wonderful for my parents who grew up in the Midwest, but they were a bit better. Even my sister Sandy can remember as a child going with my parents to Nashville (where she and two of my siblings were born) to visit friends and going to sit in the balcony at the movie theater because Blacks weren’t allowed to sit on the main floor.
Today we held our family reunion barbecue at the Elks Club in Gainesville. Some of my youngest cousins–a handful of 10, 11, and 12 year old children had brought their suits to swim in the pool. When they got in and began swimming and playing, the white family–two parents and three or four children–all got out of the pool. After a time during which they watched for a bit, eventually the white people got back into the pool. It left some of the older members of the family shaking our heads and thinking that perhaps things hadn’t changed much in Gainesville, Georgia in 2013.
I am grateful for the time I’ve spent at the reunion this weekend. I will leave here having connected with family members I haven’t known before and with a few more pieces of the puzzle filled in. While there are still a number of gaps in the story, at least I know what questions I want to ponder next. I am not sure what instincts have driven me to want to know about where my family came from, where I came from; perhaps it is in some way connected to my ongoing search for “home.” Whatever the reason, I look forward to continuing the journey, expressing gratitude for each new discovery along the way.
A Chamblee Family Plot, Alta Vista Cemetery, Gainesville, Georgia
