#52Ancestors: Week 2 - "Origins" - WHERE I'M FROM

This post is being updated on January 8, 2023, for inclusion in Week 2 of Amy Johnson Crow's "52 Ancestors in 52 Weeks" writing initiative. The original post was written and shared in 2011. I remember being very proud of it, then; and, I feel the same way now. Only the slightest of changes have been made.

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July 24, 2011

Thanks again to Randy Seaver of Genea-Musings for providing us with a fun, engaging activity.  This week's assignment, was to use write a poem entitled, "Where I'm From", using the template. To visit Randy's site and read the entire challenge, please visit http://www.geneamusings.com/2011/07/saturday-night-genealogy-fun-write-poem.html

I enjoyed working on this poem, but found it challenging in some ways, as I had to grope for ideas for a few of the items. However, most came easily, and I found myself smiling, and even laughing as I reflected on memories of days gone by.  I encourage everyone to give this a try, and to share it with your family members, too. :) 
Here's my poem:

Where I'm From

By Renate Yarborough Sanders

I am from bell-bottom pants, stacks and afros. I’m from Hostess Twinkies and Now & Laters.

I am from the historic black neighborhood of Aberdeen (Built by Blacks for Blacks), paved streets, big yards, filled with children playing while mammas watched from every window, and where you’d better get home before those street-lights come on.  I'm from playing on the "Big Hills", waiting for the Ice-Cream Man or "The Truck", and from where switches came off trees faster than you could get the last disrespectful word out of your mouth.

I am from azalea bushes and crepe myrtle trees, and from my grandma’s prized roses.

I am from holding hands during mealtime prayers, and persevering above the odds; From Anna Beatrice GREEN and Mary DAVIS and YARBOROUGHS, NEALS, DUNSTONS, HILLS, ROSSES, BRYANTS and BROWNS. And, like it or not, I’m also from HAWKINS, JONES, MACONS, DAVENPORTS and more.

I am from the head-strong and faithful. I’m from, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say nothing at all.” And, “Pretty is, as pretty does.”

I am from Baptists, and Presbyterians, and from the foot-stomping, dancing-in-the-aisle United Holiness Church. I’m from folks who love the Lord with all our hearts, souls, and all that is within us!

I'm from Cleveland, Ohio, by way of Franklin, Warren, Tyrrell and Washington Counties, in NC; Norfolk, VA; and somewhere in Africa where people spoke the Bantu languages and watched their families torn apart, chained, and loaded onto ships like somebody’s cargo. I’m from Nigeria, where my ancestors walked proudly, heads up – backs straight, until that fateful day when they were forced to bend by men whose descendants would one day be my kinfolk.

I’m from blue-crabs steamed in a touch of vinegar and seasoned (heavy) with Old-Bay; I’m from collard greens and macaroni-and-cheese, with hot, buttered corn bread on the side.

From Anna Green, a runaway transplant who shared her life with Nathaniel Hawkins, and bore six kids by him; from Arthur P. Yarborough, who after a stint as one of our nation's first black Marines, reenlisted and worked his way up to the rank of Major in the United States Army, only to be cheated out of his next promotion by the stronghold of racism.

I am from the house my grandfather built in Louisburg, the property my grandmother and mother fought to keep in Norfolk, from the last house on the left on the corner lot in Granger Court. I’m from the metal safebox which always sat on the top shelf of my parents’ closet, but now rests in mine. I’m from photo albums filled with pictures of the known and unknown, from manila folders labeled with surnames and CD-ROMs that hold pictures and documents that provide proof of my history - most of which has migrated, in digitized form, onto my laptop and my external hard drive, since the time this piece was first written.

I’m from all of this, and so much more. I’m from America.

Thanks for reading!

Renate

P.S. If you'd like to get in on the 52 Ancestors fun, just click here for more info!

Permalink to this post: https://justthinking130.blogspot.com/2011/07/saturday-night-genealogy-fun-where-im.html

Childhood Memories - Sundays

My dad, Arthur P. Yarborough posing in front of our second station wagon and my childhood home -  probably around 1970 or so.

This post is an effort to combine Randy Seaver's Saturday Night Genealogy Fun which asks us to recall a favorite childhood memory, with the Afrigeneas challenge to either recall memories of Mom in the kitchen, or Sunday memories.

I can only recall a very few occasions in my childhood when my entire family (mom, dad, 3 older brothers, and me) were all together in one place, but for at least a few years in my early childhood (before my two oldest brothers were grown and gone) it did happen. It was on Sundays that the six of us would pack into our family station wagon, armed with fried chicken, bread, potato chips, and fruit and head off to my very favorite place (Louisburg, NC) to see my very favorite person (my Grandma Yarborough). The drive was about four hours long back then, along a succession of narrow, winding country roads. Starting out along the highway through Virginia's peanut country, we sang songs, played car games, ate, and of course did our fair share of fussing and fighting. No matter how many times we took this same trip, passing the same landmarks, cotton and tobacco fields, outhouses, country stores and horse and cow-filled pastures, (complete with weathered and broken-down barns), all of these things were pointed to out to us as if we were seeing them for the first time. To this day, as I travel many of these same roads to visit my aunt and do my research, I still hear the words inside my head, "Look at the horses!" or "Do you see the cows?" (And sometimes, even in the car alone, I actually catch myself saying them!)

As we made our way to my father's birthplace, there were some stressful moments, too. Back then, all of the roads we traveled were two-lane highways, meaning one lane of traffic going each way. There were no medians between these opposite-facing lanes, and for me (the baby of the family) my father's frequent efforts to pass were the source of much distress. Every time my dad would put the pedal to the medal to pass another car, I would SCREAM at the top of my lungs! It was terrifying to me to see the traffic coming at us in the other direction, and I never believed that my father was going to make it around the car, or sometimes CARS in front of us to get back into our lane on time! I would scream and cry, and beg my dad not to pass, but all this resulted in was everyone in the family getting mad and fussing at me. Oh, and you'd better believe that the station wagon was pulled over many times, so that my dad could select just the right switch off of a roadside tree and and threaten to use it to teach me to stop hollering and crying in his ear while he was driving! (I'm pretty sure the switch was actually used a couple of times, too - but it never worked to stop me from my dramatics.)

One other little thing that I remember about these trips is our roadside pit-stops to use the restroom. Well, let me rephrase that.... to relieve ourselves. You see, we rarely ever stopped at a place to use restroom facilities. Instead, when we had to "go", my father would simply pull over on the side of the road. The boys would go to the nearest tree and quickly take care of their business, but for me, it was a squat inside of the open car door, and a wipe with a napkin...lol, provided by my watchful mother (who, by the way, I don't EVER remember doing this herself). There was a certain church up on a hill on our last stretch of highway that had a big oak tree in front of it, and we always seemed to stop there for this purpose. I still pass that church when I go down to Louisburg, and I always remember its connection to my childhood trips. It seems odd that we would do this at a church, but for some reason, we did. One little side note about this: I feel pretty sure that, given the times (60's) we didnt' stop at a gas station to use the restroom because of the racial climate. Neither of my parents or older brothers ever said this to me, but as I look back on it now, I'd be willing to bet that this was my father's way of avoiding conflict, and maybe, just maybe my parents felt we were more protected by stopping on the grounds of a church. I do recall, in later years, actually stopping at a couple of gas stations. At those times, we'd have to ask for a key, and would be directed to use a certain restroom.)

This picture shows our first station wagon, which I don't so much remember,
parked next to my Grandma's house, in Louisburg.

Everyone's excitement always grew as we got into North Carolina and began to see the red, clay dirt along the roadside shoulders - first just little patches here and there, just slightly orangish in color, but then increasingly larger pads of it, brilliantly and unmistakably RED. We knew that we were getting closer to our destination as the color of the soil deepened its hue. Then would come that final landmark that would cause my brother Arthur and I to sit straight up and abandon any argument we might have been having. Once we saw the Dairy Queen at the intersection of what I now know is Routes 561 and 39, in Louisburg, we knew that we were just about 2 minutes away from our grandma's house! We both loved her so much, but at that moment it was her always-waiting candy cabinet that we had on our minds. Once we got to her house, and all the greetings and hugs were done, my grandma would give us the signal that we could go to that wonderful place where we'd always find a special treat that had been placed there just for us. My grandma never forgot to do this. Never. Oh, how I loved her, and she loved ME!

Here we are - the six of us - standing in front of the station wagon on the street in front 

of my grandma's house. I imagine we were about to get in the car to head home.