Dear Racism, I am not my grandparents. Sincerely, These Hands.
“Sincerely, These Hands.” Do you know what that means? I don’t. I was scrolling on my facebook newsfeed and I saw this ad for a t-shirt with this message inscribed on it. A week or so later I saw an article criticizing the shirt that thousands of facebook users scrolled passed. Apparently, the author thought the designer of the t-shirt was insulting previous generations for not fighting hard enough against racism, oppression and state sanctioned violence. “These are not my grandparents hands” meant that this generations of activist aren’t as passive and forgiving as their elders.
I spent this Remembrance of Indigenous Sacrifice day (also known as ‘Thanksgiving’) among my extended family. Before I was able to indulge in a combination of macaroni and cheese/ yams/ stuffing magnificence I had to stop, pause and participate in the yearly ritual. I’m not sure if your family is like my family, but every year before the Thanksgiving dinner we have to go around the table and say what we are thankful for. We actually don’t go around the table. We have to go around the entire room so that all 500 of us can say something prolific and meaningful. However, most people just repeated the same statement, “I’m thankful for my friends and family”. Keep it classy. Keep it quick.
This year I am thankful that my hands are my grandparents hands.
I am the product of my grandparents hopes and dreams. I am the manifestation of the triumph over their fears and their struggle. I am the answer to every tear cried and opportunity that was denied to them. I am my ancestors wildest dreams. I expand into places they couldn’t. I am their legacy after enduring Jim Crow, the Great Depression, and other horrific life events that I can’t even imagine.
This Remembrance of Indigenous Sacrifice I am beholden to and thankful for the sacrifices of my great grandparents and my grandparents: Lucious Sr. and Plurel, Ora Lee and Ocie, Pearl and Ocie, and Betty Jean and Roy. I just realized I don’t know my grandmother’s parents name. I’m pretty sure she (or one of my aunts) is going to read this and call me sooner rather than later.
And since this is my list of being thankful for all of the elderly people in my life I’m also going to include Aunt Gladys, Aunt Mildred and Uncle Edgar (the man who makes us go around the room and say what we are thankful for).
I am also thankful for James and Loretta McBride, and Joan and Jerry Moss. I keep trying to type the perfect sentence to express how I feel about them. I just can’t. I don’t have the language or the words to express my sentiment towards them. Every term of joy and endearment that I can think of just seems too shallow to capture the love and admiration I have for these people.
Every month I write a letter about something that I’m thankful for. If you receive this letter it means that you are someone that I appreciate. I would love to hear from you.