It is no secret that the history of a generational African American person is one intrinsically tied to pain, betrayal, and separation. It’s a history that is remembered quite well. However, heavily associated with African American experiences is the concept of fragments, pieces of history that make up our being. And what a beautiful, fragmented history it is — filled with card games, southern gospel, artwork, and dancing. In light of the recent efforts in the U.S. to erase African American history from school curriculums, it is important that our personal stories are told, now more than ever.
As a young adult, I am slowly coming to terms with my own identity and understanding my place in the world. Although I was ecstatic to become the first member of my family to attend Harvard University and grateful for the opportunities it would bring, I couldn’t help but think about how much had been sacrificed on my behalf in order for me to reach this moment.
The pressure to succeed weighed heavily on me — the pressure to trailblaze on behalf of others in your community, the pressure to be an example, not to fail, and not to waiver in a commitment to education and knowledge-seeking.
Before college, I was fairly secure in my identity as a Black woman. I had a keen interest in politics throughout high school and participated in several initiatives to foster diversity in education and fairness in disciplinary policies. I knew that my ancestors were slaves, which placed its own limits on discovering my heritage. That always unsettled me just a little bit.
Perhaps that is why I gravitated to studying history in college. I am fascinated by the cultures of others, from the wonderful artistic creations of the Ming Dynasty, to Mayan traditions, to, of course, the oral histories of the Sudanese and Ghanaian regions. However, I hesitated to fully investigate my own history, always approaching it with a certain shyness. Movies like “Twelve Years A Slave” and “The Butler” had shown me the systemic violence against generational African Americans: heartbreak, pain, and abuse inflicted by White individuals. I simply assumed there wouldn’t be much else to explore.
That is until I actually stepped foot on campus. I remember attending an event held by the Generational African American Students Association during Visitas 2023, Harvard’s admitted students weekend. I saw a group of people in full celebration of their heritage as African Americans: a room filled with music, laughter, and dancing.
At first, it was hard to reconcile my previous experiences with a space like this. Coming from a predominantly White high school, I had never seen such an expansive African American community in an academic setting before.
And yet, I saw the nation’s brightest, most accomplished minds all joined together in celebration. It was beautiful. And as I sat there, I let my mind transport me back to Fourth of July barbecues, chatter during Thanksgiving dinner, and Saturday all-day block parties. As Beyonce’s “Before I Let Go” reverberated throughout the room, I started to raise my hands and tap my feet. Suddenly, I stood, crossed my feet over each other, and began to clap. Feeling safe in the company of my community, I joined in with the other voices as we screamed at the top of our lungs, “I would never, never, never, never, never, never, never, never, let you go before I go!” I’m so grateful I took part.
I found this experience to be so healing that I kept going back to GAASA events. As a current member of the organization, I’ve learned how to play Spades — although I am a work in progress — and other such games as well as discussed issues surrounding my identity. I simply have been able to access a safe space where I can be myself. I feel such pride to be a part of an organization that is dedicated to fostering community on campus. Because of the Generational African American Students Association, I fully embraced the meaning of being African American.
And thus began my quest to learn more. My aunt, Dr. Beverly Greene, aside from being an outstanding university professor, is also an incredibly skilled photographer. She’s been keeping record of my existence through thousands of photographs taken during my childhood. Likewise, she has detailed our family lineage to the best of her ability. I reached out and messaged her, and with one text she became my storyteller.
During our conversation, I learned that I can trace my paternal heritage to the Cumberland Creek and Swift Creek regions of North Carolina, “where many of the earlier slaves were deposited,” she said. They then migrated to Georgia and Claiborne County in Mississippi, where they endured many years of turmoil in the Jim Crow South. Although a house fire destroyed a literal Bible of birth year records — essential information pertaining to my ancestors’ identities — I know for certain that the green fields of Georgia, Mississippi, and North Carolina’s rivers have felt the touch of my ancestors. Embedded within the Earth are their footprints, traveling from South to North during the Great migration.
Similarly, objects carry their experiences as well. I imagine that a wooden hammer, similar to the one resting in my dad’s toolbox in the family garage in Philadelphia, molded itself to fit the grasp of my great-great-grandfather’s hands as he constructed a local turpentine distillery. On the tape measure that my father frequently uses, I can find the markings made by my grandfather. He used this tool to measure the home he built for my father and his siblings, just an hour and a half from where I grew up.
I now see traces of history throughout my family home, in the art, where before they were simply beautiful paintings that complimented my living and dining room furniture — “The Banjo Lesson” by Henry Ossawa Tanner and “Blessings II” by John Holyfield. Many more were unnamed paintings that told vivid stories — one of a Black woman cradling her sick child, a painting of an older woman standing in front of cotton fields covered in the pink of the sunset, another of a woman in a beautiful white cape, symbolizing freedom and purity, a canvas depicting a Black bride and groom jumping a wooden broom, and another with three Black soldiers standing back to back, with doves coming out of the barrels of their guns. These paintings portray strong African American stories of struggle and perseverance, as well as intimate, miniscule moments, away from a world of hatred. These paintings tell stories that are uniquely ours.
However, it can be difficult to find connections between and chronology through it all — constructing a discernible narrative through the objects, the paintings, the stories. Part of this journey is understanding that all history can be incredibly fragmented. Some historical puzzles are more challenging than others. As a generational African American, I have accepted that my ancestry consists of little fragments of life that tell expansive stories. Although I may never get the full picture, I’ve somehow found a totality within the pieces. I am extremely proud of that.
I made a promise to myself when I committed to Harvard that I intend on keeping: expanding the opportunities of discovery for the generations after me and illuminating the history of the generations before me. By gathering around a circular table and playing spades after the sun has set and the food has settled. By staying connected to my faith as a Christian woman, internalizing the old, southern hymns of the Black church that have made their way hundreds of miles up North. By embracing the Black experience of jazz music — of Nina Simone, Ella Fitzgerald, The Ink Spots, and Nat King Cole. When I open my mouth to sing “Cry Me A River,” I’ll sing it like itmeans something, because it does.
Although the struggles and pain of my ancestors are remembered quite well, I will choose to honor them with a curious disposition toward a history that is still being uncovered. I have a strong desire to preserve it — the storytelling, the games, the art, and the music. I will do so with an abundance of joy that will remain during my four years at Harvard and beyond.
