I love Halloween. Though I am not dressing up this year, as I was just too plain lazy to figure out a costume, I have been known, in the past, to put a new twist on old themes. Like Halloween 1999 in San Juan, Puerto Rico, when I dressed up as Foxy Brown cum Vampiress. I had on a mini-black dress, fish net stockings, high heels, an afro wig, and big hoop earrings. I was FIERCE.
Another year, I dressed up as a crazy beatnik clown with an Elvira wig on and a beret. My own Mama didn't recognize my sweet ad demented face.
The ancient peoples of Great Britain celebrated Samhain, a Harvest festival when it was said that the spirits of the dead were able to cross back over into this world. The people carved turnips with grotesque faces (which is the origin of the tradition of carving pumpkins) in order to keep the evil spirits at bay. Also, the townsfolk would dress up as goblins and sprites and all kinds of creatures in order to blend in with the naughty naughty spirits that roamed the night on All Hallows Eve.
Then along came the Catholic Church, fucking everything up, they declared November 1st to be All Saints Day, since they couldn't get the silly pagans to give up outright their notion of ghoulies running about, then the church started burning witches, and well...Halloween wasn't fun anymore...at least not until Hershey's and the other candy companies got together and decided that in America even pagan holidays could be money makers.
All joshin' aside, I believe that Halloween is a sacred night. All day long I have felt the presence of my ancestors just a little bit closer. I have been on my best behavior just in case my Big Mama or one of other deceased relatives takes the thinning of the veil between the worlds to reach through and switch my ass.
Big Mama chewed tobacco. That woman didn't play.
I am very happy for the nearing of my ancestors on such a night as this. Let's hope that they move on to pester other relatives before I get to the birthday festivities that I am attending this evening. If I decide to haul David into the bathroom and touch his no no spot or start dirty dancing with a random Mexican man with a tight booty, I don't want Uncle Ornery or Grandma Druscilla watching me.
Have a super spooktacular Halloween.
Showing posts with label Ancestors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ancestors. Show all posts
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Minnesota Part Four: My Ancestors Are Way Cooler Than Yours
The earliest branch of my family on my Mother's side immigrated to the United States, then the British Colonies, aboard the Mayflower. The gentleman that was to spawn my great-great-great Grandmother was a coopersmith from Britain. For those of you that are not in the know, a coopersmith fashioned the hoops that held barrels together. Now, one may think that sort of thing wouldn't be very impressive...but only if one fails to recall that until the late 19th century, almost all cargo in the world was transported in barrels held together by those hoops. Thus, a coopersmith was often a self-made man. This ancestor of mine...had bank.
Too bad someone along the line spent it, cuz I ain't seen nary a damn nickel of it.
My most direct branch of family emigrated from Ireland in 1822, well before the Potato Famine. This relative-o'mine, by the surname Carey, first name Richard, left Ireland, and moved to Newfoundland. Later, he realized that Canadia isn't a real country, just a bunch of Minnesotans that lost their way, and moved to Maine. There he married and had a son by the name of John. This man, John Richard Carey, got hitched and moved to Superior, WI. At the time, Superior was King over the Arrowhead region of the Minnesota Territory. But, my ambitious forebear banded together with seven other families, crossed the bay, and founded the city of Duluth, which was named after a 17th century French knight that explored the area. John R. Carey would later become the first postmaster, first Probate Judge, founder of the Democratic Party, and founder of the Presbyterian Church in Duluth, Minnesota...Minnesota's third largest city.
Somehow, his children managed to squander his political connections, convert to Lutheranism, and move to the country and take up construction work. I could choke all of them.
Actually, I love my family. It is amazing to have been born in a city of nearly 100,000 people that your very own family co-founded. When I was a kid, I visited the Depot Museum in Duluth, and I saw an exhibit about John Richard Carey. I remember telling my classmates that the old ass man in the painting had the same last name as my Mom. I had no idea, at the time, that I was staring in the face of my Great-Great-Great Grandfather...a politician, family man, city founder, and racist.
Indeed, the man wrote a book called the History of Duluth and Northern Minnesota, which can be found in the Minnesota Historical Society's archives, where he speaks of the glories of the north lands, and advocates for the removal or murder of the native populations.
I think it is hilarious that his grandson married a native woman.
When David and I arrived in Duluth, I was expecting two and half days of calm and relaxation. My Mom lives on Schultz Lake. A private lake that is only accessible if you own property on it. I had phoned ahead and told my Mother that after several days of nonstop motion, David and I were tired and did not want to have to do a bunch of family visitations. I thought she understand that we would spend time with some family, but, in general, we wanted to just relax.
I should have been much more clear in my instructions.
I should have known something was up when, after realizing I didn't quite remember the way to the lake house, I called my Mom's house and my Grandma answered the phone. My family is quite like cockroaches...for everyone you see...there are a hundred more lurking nearby. When we reached my Mom's house, David smiled at the beauty of the home and the lake, and then we both gasped, as we saw through the window of the house below us, about a dozen of my family members.
I could have killed my Mother.
We walked into the house to three of my aunts, my grandmother, my uncle, a great aunt, a great uncle, my Mom, her husband, the boyfriend of an aunt, and one of my little cousins. This was the first time I had ever brought home a boyfriend to meet my extended family, and shortly after our arrival, two more aunts showed up. Sweet Jesus, David looked as if he were going to run crying back to New York, and I buried my face in the giant roasting pan of barbecued meat that my Mother had prepared.
If you think I am sassy, you should meet my relatives. Smart assery is a gene in my family, and it is also a point of familial pride. I hadn't been in the house for five minutes when the snarky comments and the fun poking began. To escape, David and I went fishing on the lake with my great-uncle (a retired military lifer), and my uncle (a recently reformed Bible beater). That should give you a clue as to the choices we faced.
It actually turned out to be a lot of fun. In the end, with my family, the bottom line is that family is family, and if you are thinking about joining up with our outfit...you have to pass muster. And, though I am the brown queer mega-liberal grandchild/nephew...I am also a family favorite. My aunties were sizing David up, and my great-uncle was eyeballing David like he eyeballed the North Koreans during the war.
They loved him.
After a few hours of covert evaluation of David by my fam, they all trickled out...and by trickled I mean they almost all left at the exact same time. So obvious.
David and I spent the rest of our time visiting with my Mother, fishing on Schultz Lake, and joking about my poor Aunt Mike (real name Chioko) who, in her mid-80s, is still a gorgeous Japanese survivor of World War II...and crazy as hell.
Too bad someone along the line spent it, cuz I ain't seen nary a damn nickel of it.
My most direct branch of family emigrated from Ireland in 1822, well before the Potato Famine. This relative-o'mine, by the surname Carey, first name Richard, left Ireland, and moved to Newfoundland. Later, he realized that Canadia isn't a real country, just a bunch of Minnesotans that lost their way, and moved to Maine. There he married and had a son by the name of John. This man, John Richard Carey, got hitched and moved to Superior, WI. At the time, Superior was King over the Arrowhead region of the Minnesota Territory. But, my ambitious forebear banded together with seven other families, crossed the bay, and founded the city of Duluth, which was named after a 17th century French knight that explored the area. John R. Carey would later become the first postmaster, first Probate Judge, founder of the Democratic Party, and founder of the Presbyterian Church in Duluth, Minnesota...Minnesota's third largest city. Somehow, his children managed to squander his political connections, convert to Lutheranism, and move to the country and take up construction work. I could choke all of them.
Actually, I love my family. It is amazing to have been born in a city of nearly 100,000 people that your very own family co-founded. When I was a kid, I visited the Depot Museum in Duluth, and I saw an exhibit about John Richard Carey. I remember telling my classmates that the old ass man in the painting had the same last name as my Mom. I had no idea, at the time, that I was staring in the face of my Great-Great-Great Grandfather...a politician, family man, city founder, and racist.
Indeed, the man wrote a book called the History of Duluth and Northern Minnesota, which can be found in the Minnesota Historical Society's archives, where he speaks of the glories of the north lands, and advocates for the removal or murder of the native populations.I think it is hilarious that his grandson married a native woman.
When David and I arrived in Duluth, I was expecting two and half days of calm and relaxation. My Mom lives on Schultz Lake. A private lake that is only accessible if you own property on it. I had phoned ahead and told my Mother that after several days of nonstop motion, David and I were tired and did not want to have to do a bunch of family visitations. I thought she understand that we would spend time with some family, but, in general, we wanted to just relax.
I should have been much more clear in my instructions.
I should have known something was up when, after realizing I didn't quite remember the way to the lake house, I called my Mom's house and my Grandma answered the phone. My family is quite like cockroaches...for everyone you see...there are a hundred more lurking nearby. When we reached my Mom's house, David smiled at the beauty of the home and the lake, and then we both gasped, as we saw through the window of the house below us, about a dozen of my family members.
I could have killed my Mother.
We walked into the house to three of my aunts, my grandmother, my uncle, a great aunt, a great uncle, my Mom, her husband, the boyfriend of an aunt, and one of my little cousins. This was the first time I had ever brought home a boyfriend to meet my extended family, and shortly after our arrival, two more aunts showed up. Sweet Jesus, David looked as if he were going to run crying back to New York, and I buried my face in the giant roasting pan of barbecued meat that my Mother had prepared.
If you think I am sassy, you should meet my relatives. Smart assery is a gene in my family, and it is also a point of familial pride. I hadn't been in the house for five minutes when the snarky comments and the fun poking began. To escape, David and I went fishing on the lake with my great-uncle (a retired military lifer), and my uncle (a recently reformed Bible beater). That should give you a clue as to the choices we faced.It actually turned out to be a lot of fun. In the end, with my family, the bottom line is that family is family, and if you are thinking about joining up with our outfit...you have to pass muster. And, though I am the brown queer mega-liberal grandchild/nephew...I am also a family favorite. My aunties were sizing David up, and my great-uncle was eyeballing David like he eyeballed the North Koreans during the war.
They loved him.
After a few hours of covert evaluation of David by my fam, they all trickled out...and by trickled I mean they almost all left at the exact same time. So obvious.
David and I spent the rest of our time visiting with my Mother, fishing on Schultz Lake, and joking about my poor Aunt Mike (real name Chioko) who, in her mid-80s, is still a gorgeous Japanese survivor of World War II...and crazy as hell.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Forget 40 Acres and a Mule...Write Me A Check!
(I am taking a short break from my multi-part Minnesota story to share with you my thoughts on today's vote by the Senate regarding slavery)
Today the United States Senate, on the eve of Juneteenth, passed a resolution apologizing to African-Americans and descendants of slaves for slavery and Jim Crow segregation. The resolution now moves to the House, where it is likely to pass.
I think I am going to pass on this apology too.
Juneteenth, the largely invisible holiday celebrated by few outside of the black community, is a celebration of the actual end of slavery. Slavery ended in the United States on 19 June 1865 when the last blacks held in bondage, in Galveston, Texas, received word that they were free. On that day no man could call another man property. Unfortunately, abject poverty, degradation, wage slavery, and violent subjugation were to continue, with state sanction and complicity, for another century. And anyone that has been pulled over for driving while black, been called a nigger, or been denied employment or housing because of their race, knows that while physical lynchings may be over, spiritual lynchings continue without regard to who may be sleeping in the White House.
Though this resolution, passed 143 years and 364 days after the actual end of slavery, is long overdue, the rider on the resolution clearly stating that it does not in any way support or condone or authorize reparation payments to the descendants of slaves invalidates the sentiment and marks the difference between an apology and an amends. I am not interested in apologies. An apology acknowledges action without the assumption of responsibility or obligation to repair what was broken. An amends is the assumption of responsibility for the results of ones actions and doing the work necessary to repair what was done.
The words of a body that once stood firm against human rights for black folks and continues to stand in the way of the liberation of queer folks is worth about as much as my total worth. Roughly -$46,000 or so…depending on the current amount of interest I owe on my student loans.
It is beyond time for apologies. In 1988, Congress voted to pay the 60,000 survivors of Japanese internment camps $20,000 each to help ameliorate their pain and suffering. That, my friends, is an amends.
I am no fool. There is a very real reason why the Japanese received remuneration for four horrible years in concentration camps while black folks received nothing for 400 years of free labor and horrific abuse. The 1980s saw a meteoric rise in Japanese international cache. Japan was an economic powerhouse and American business wanted to do it doggie style with Japanese businesses, and $1.2 billion dollars was a small price to pay for the return on their investments.
Most people of African descent have no idea from whence they were stolen. And, even if we did know, there is no African economic powerhouse that American businesses want to exploit. The natural resources of Africa are in the hands and control of Western business interests. The only reason to pay substantial reparations to U.S. descendants of slaves would be justice. The business of the U.S. government is business and investing in justice, though it pays great moral dividends, rarely creates capital gains.
So, I say, respectfully, keep your apology. It is meaningless. The wealth of this nation does not exist separate from the hundreds of years of free labor that created it. For some, this is an abstract concept, for me it is a reality. The family that owned mine was the Nickels family of Greenbrier County, West Virginia.
My family still lives in the town where we were slaves. My Father went to school and grew up with the descendants of the family that owned us. The economic privileges of that family, a century after my great-great grandfather was freed, were still apparent.
Our family records date back to 1709, for more than a century the Nickels and others before them earned wealth on my grandparent’s backs. No apology will free their spirits. No apology will remove the wealth from those that exploited them and put it in their hands or in the hands of their descendants.
In America, we value the ability to pass on wealth from one generation to the next. Parents pass as much wealth to their children as possible in order that their children will need to work less than, perhaps, they did. My ancestors did not have that option. Their wealth, the fruit of their hands, and their labor was compelled from them and their products taken from them to benefit those that did nothing to earn it except be born with white skin.
Keep your apology. I don’t want it. But I will take a check, and one for my brothers and sisters, parents, and grandparents, and every other descendant of slaves in this nation, children of those that built this nation. It is our due. You have been drawing from our spiritual and labor account for too long. I am marking your apology NSF: Insufficient funds. You will be charged a penalty.
Today the United States Senate, on the eve of Juneteenth, passed a resolution apologizing to African-Americans and descendants of slaves for slavery and Jim Crow segregation. The resolution now moves to the House, where it is likely to pass.
I think I am going to pass on this apology too.
Juneteenth, the largely invisible holiday celebrated by few outside of the black community, is a celebration of the actual end of slavery. Slavery ended in the United States on 19 June 1865 when the last blacks held in bondage, in Galveston, Texas, received word that they were free. On that day no man could call another man property. Unfortunately, abject poverty, degradation, wage slavery, and violent subjugation were to continue, with state sanction and complicity, for another century. And anyone that has been pulled over for driving while black, been called a nigger, or been denied employment or housing because of their race, knows that while physical lynchings may be over, spiritual lynchings continue without regard to who may be sleeping in the White House. Though this resolution, passed 143 years and 364 days after the actual end of slavery, is long overdue, the rider on the resolution clearly stating that it does not in any way support or condone or authorize reparation payments to the descendants of slaves invalidates the sentiment and marks the difference between an apology and an amends. I am not interested in apologies. An apology acknowledges action without the assumption of responsibility or obligation to repair what was broken. An amends is the assumption of responsibility for the results of ones actions and doing the work necessary to repair what was done.
The words of a body that once stood firm against human rights for black folks and continues to stand in the way of the liberation of queer folks is worth about as much as my total worth. Roughly -$46,000 or so…depending on the current amount of interest I owe on my student loans. It is beyond time for apologies. In 1988, Congress voted to pay the 60,000 survivors of Japanese internment camps $20,000 each to help ameliorate their pain and suffering. That, my friends, is an amends.
I am no fool. There is a very real reason why the Japanese received remuneration for four horrible years in concentration camps while black folks received nothing for 400 years of free labor and horrific abuse. The 1980s saw a meteoric rise in Japanese international cache. Japan was an economic powerhouse and American business wanted to do it doggie style with Japanese businesses, and $1.2 billion dollars was a small price to pay for the return on their investments.
Most people of African descent have no idea from whence they were stolen. And, even if we did know, there is no African economic powerhouse that American businesses want to exploit. The natural resources of Africa are in the hands and control of Western business interests. The only reason to pay substantial reparations to U.S. descendants of slaves would be justice. The business of the U.S. government is business and investing in justice, though it pays great moral dividends, rarely creates capital gains.
So, I say, respectfully, keep your apology. It is meaningless. The wealth of this nation does not exist separate from the hundreds of years of free labor that created it. For some, this is an abstract concept, for me it is a reality. The family that owned mine was the Nickels family of Greenbrier County, West Virginia.
My family still lives in the town where we were slaves. My Father went to school and grew up with the descendants of the family that owned us. The economic privileges of that family, a century after my great-great grandfather was freed, were still apparent. Our family records date back to 1709, for more than a century the Nickels and others before them earned wealth on my grandparent’s backs. No apology will free their spirits. No apology will remove the wealth from those that exploited them and put it in their hands or in the hands of their descendants.
In America, we value the ability to pass on wealth from one generation to the next. Parents pass as much wealth to their children as possible in order that their children will need to work less than, perhaps, they did. My ancestors did not have that option. Their wealth, the fruit of their hands, and their labor was compelled from them and their products taken from them to benefit those that did nothing to earn it except be born with white skin.
Keep your apology. I don’t want it. But I will take a check, and one for my brothers and sisters, parents, and grandparents, and every other descendant of slaves in this nation, children of those that built this nation. It is our due. You have been drawing from our spiritual and labor account for too long. I am marking your apology NSF: Insufficient funds. You will be charged a penalty.
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