Sometimes it frightens me when I think about the connection I feel with my ancestors.  It’s a strong connection that moves me to tears as I feel their presence at times. It’s even stronger when I am amongst present relatives.  I’m a wimp at family reunions. I love my family and seeing the current makes me love and appreciate the past even more so.

I’ve dabbled a little in genealogy. I remember when I first “found” my grandparents in the Census records/archives at the library. Oh my! When I saw “Papa” (my maternal grandfather), it was as though I could feel him. The first record of him was that of a 19 year old young man, Willie Huston. Now that was interesting, because we knew “Papa’s” real name to be Julius Houston.  I learned that he changed his name about a year after those Census when he moved from New Roads, LA to New Orleans, LA.  Note, the last name is no typo. I’ve been told that the Census (and “the White man”, as older relatives tell me) spelled the name without the “o”. Papa “fixed” it when he changed from Willie to Julius.

Then I looked for my maternal grandmother, Beulah Kirp, but found no record of her because I learned that her “adopted” mother would hide her when the Census takers came around because they were afraid that she would be removed from the home.  She was being raised by a lady I only know as “Mama Had”, who took her in after she was abandoned by her birth mother.  That’s what people used to do. They helped one another. I know that “Mama Had’s” real name was Harriet, but that’s it. I know nothing else of her and could find no records.  It hurts me that I don’t know more of my heritage there on that side of my family. I was able, however, to see my grandfather’s mother listed. Again, I felt such a strong wind of connection. My heart leaped and I felt as though I knew her.  Her name was Olivia. There was no mention of a husband. I know nothing about either Papa’s or Grandma Buelah’s fathers.

I didn’t find much from my father’s side either. However, I saw his parents, John Young and Rosa Brown. John, I believe was born somewhere in Mississippi, but I don’t know where. No record of him until he was in New Orleans. Rosa’s record only show her in the Gretna area of New Orleans (Westbank).  I believe that she also lived with a family. John’s mother’s name was also Olivia. I was so amazed to learn that both of my Great-Grandmothers names were Olivia. Such a beautiful name!

But that is as far back as I’ve been able to learn of my family. Yet, I honor my ancestors and I thank God for them, as I know that I wouldn’t be who I am if it weren’t for them.  I’ll never forget the first time I saw the “slave quarters” or the “row houses” still standing in New Roads, LA. It hit me that MY people lived there! I saw the “big house” of the Master, and then the shacks of their slaves. My people! I cried when I saw it. And I felt as though their spirits were crying out to me.

In June 2009, I wrote a blog documenting my trip to Memphis, TN where we visited the Slave Haven Museum. You can read it by clicking here.  That experience caught me by surprise as I found myself overcome with emotion when I went down into the cellar of a house that hid runaway slaves. It was part of the underground railroad.  I knew all of this from history, but it was something else to experience the place. I honestly FELT the presence and spirits of my people. I felt the pain of the women holding their babies, and in some cases, killing them if they cried in order to keep the entire group safe and undiscovered by “the White man”.

I watched Oprah today and was moved to tears again. Actually, I balled my eyes out as I watched actress Lisa Kudrow as she visited the site of where her Jewish ancestors were brought as they were killed during the Holocaust.  It was explained to her that they were naked and lined up to be shot! I cried as she pictured it in her mind. I cried with her.  She was also shown the written record of a distant relative who was “killed and burned”. Oh how my heart broke!

Then NFL legend Emmit Smith was brought to the place of his ancestors. He was shown where they were buried on a plantation, but the grave sites were over run by trees. The woods! The other side of it was the “White” cemetery, which was well kept and maintained. His heart was broken because he could not visit his relatives’ burial spots.  And then he learned more about his lineage.  Learned of a “mulatto” named Mariah whose father was the “Master”, who was a cruel man. He used his slaves for breeding — like animals!  Oh how I cried with Emmit as he recounted his experience with Oprah.

With Lisa and Emmit, I still felt the spirits of their people crying out.  I am not Jewish, but I can still feel and have compassion and empathy for what the Jewish people have endured.  A lineage of people hated and treated beyond cruelly just because of who they were.  No thought for family by the oppressors. No concern about the children. No feelings whatsoever.  Pure evil!

As Emmit said, it’s as though our people had no closure.  And he spoke about the importance of knowing who he is and bearing the responsibility of honoring them.

I feel the same. Watching the show reawakened what I feel so deeply. Yes, their spirits are crying out to me. Therefore, I must be even more cognizant of my gifts and talents by using them correctly and with purpose. I am responsible for doing well. I must be successful in this life. I must make my people proud.  I cannot live a shameful life.  I cannot run through this life without any regard for the expectations that are on me.  Willie, who was bold enough to change his name for whatever reason (I’ve heard a number of stories as to why), is depending on me to do great things. The two Olivia’s need for me to represent not only my family, but all women well!  Mama Had, who simply stepped up and did what was necessary to raise a child that wasn’t even hers, is calling out to me to press on.

For all of those who were treated less than human, and worse than animals, are looking to me to live a respectable life with dignity and purpose.

Yes, their spirits cry out to me. I hear them loudly and I can no longer shut my ears.

Carla Y. Nix