Day 13 #SOl21: Contemplating A Century + 1

 

Eufaula Horn was born on March 13, 1920 on a small farm in Hardeman County, Texas. She was the youngest of five children, and she later give birth to four kids of her own. My paternal grandmother, caregiver, and guardian angel—Nora Franks— remains her only living offspring. Grandmother Horn made it to the ripe old age of 94, witnessing innumerable changes, experiencing intense joy, and weathering untold suffering. She buried her firstborn daughter after a horrible battle with cancer and lost her eldest son in a tragic car accident before earning her heavenly wings in in spring of 2014. Our beloved Great Grandmother Horn passed away peacefully in her home, surrounded by generations of family members she'd raised, nurtured, and cherished. Her spirit lives on in each of us.

As we mark the one year anniversary of Coronavirus and reflect on one of the most challenging seasons of our adult lives, I find myself thinking of her often. She was born near at the tail end of our last global pandemic. I imagine if she were still with us today, celebrating her 101st birthday, she'd have a lot to say about the state of our world. 

During a TCRWP Supper Club event this fall, Yolanda Sealey-Ruiz explained that we are all products of the times and places in which we live. This fierce thought leader encouraged us to revisit our childhoods and converse with our living ancestors in order to fully understand how our ideas about race and privilege emerged. She implored teachers to engage in the "archeology of self-work" in order to better serve the kids entrusted to our care. 

Although I loved my great-grandmother with abandon, like so many women raised in the deep south, she breathed the smog of racism her whole life. Racial slurs and the N-word were common place in our family, and during my early twenties I struggled to reconcile how a woman with so much love to give could harbor such oppressive and hurtful ideas. Many of my living relatives continue to dismiss her use of the N-word saying things like, "Now, Tenille, that's just the way people talked back then." And this may be true, but it doesn't make it okay. I do not write these things to discredit or lessen my great-grandmother's legacy. She was and still is the esteemed matriarch of our family. As Dr. Brené Brown reminds us, "The dark does not destroy the light. It defines it. It's our fear of the dark that casts our joy into the shadows."

I have encountered the James Baldwin quote below multiple times during the last few years, and it continues to make me think, wrestle, and wonder.

In my own family of origin, facing the truth of our past can be painful. But at a local and national level, I've witnessed a reckoning with history like I've never seen before. In Denton, Texas they've removed confederate statues off the courthouse lawn and changed the names of local elementary schools. I'm afraid if my great grandmother were still living, she might attribute these changes to the cancel-culture narrative because being held accountable for dehumanization and oppression hurts. 

A great place to begin this excavation process is through study and reading. On my last trip home to the Texas Panhandle, Nora and I read the recently published picture book, Unspeakable: The Tulsa Race Massacre together. At the age of 78, my grandmother was appalled to learn—for the first time—about these tragic events which have purposely been left out of our history books. As I shared the the painful illustrations and well-crafted historical narrative through my Kindle app on the TV screen, looks of shock and disbelief washed over her face. The story allowed us to reckon with an ugly part of our shared American past, and it opened up long overdue conversations about the uncomfortable truths of our present. At one point Nora said, "No wonder they are so angry . . ." 

Once again, I sat down to write one blog and a different one emerged. It's interesting how ideas morph and change as thoughts emerge, subside, and shift. A century + 1 reminds me change is possible. There's a current of hope surging below all the chaos and uncertainty, and thanks to precious moments like the one Nora and I recently shared, I desperately want to believe we can someday live in a more just and loving world where ALL people are truly equal. 

Until then, I'll look back on the treasured memories of Grandmother Horn and the beautiful ways her legacy shaped our family. Later today I'll eat a Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pie in her honor and watch the tribute video we made about her life back in 2014.