Verbal history – Black History Month

It’s the middle of Black History Month 2016 in the UK. I’ve been thinking a lot about identity and what this month signifies to my family and how I would incorporate it into my daily life. To be honest, I haven’t really done anything differently as I tend to make conversations as important as culture, identity and history part of regular life, much in the same way that I don’t wait until Valentine’s Day to show my partner he is loved, or birthdays to treat my daughter.

One thing that did spring to mind when I was considering the importance of Black History Month was that just as it is important for kids to know about famous peers, the history of slavery, the wind rush and other pivotal points in our ancestors’ journeys, it’s also essential to look closer to home and learn about our own family’s journey through time.

Within my own ancestry, I’m a Dominican, Nigerian, brought up in England but dig deeper and there are French, Togolese and many other influences woven through our family tree too. Our histories can be complex and beautiful, the source of many an interesting story.

There is a small black and white photograph that sits with great pride within a silver frame in my parent’s home. The photo is dwarfed by the frame and makes the subject look even more fragile because of it. The photograph is of my great-grandmother. A lovely, yet stern sounding woman who raised my mum until her teens. I didn’t have the honour of meeting her but I know her. I know her because my mum took time out to tell me stories about her.

When we visited Dominica for the first time, I was eight years old and my mum walked us kids down the now disused path to show us the small timber house my great-grandmother used to inhabit. As we walked, she pointed out where they would pick mangos, the pathway to the sea that the children would scurry down when the fishermen blew their conch shells, signalling they were coming in with a fresh catch. The citrus trees they would pick lemons and limes from still flourished outside of the house. I saw it in my mind’s eye thanks to the verbal history my mum created for us. The visuals of the trip was just icing to a well baked cake.

The photograph of my great-grandmother only made its way onto our mantel sometime in the last ten years. For the first 20 years of my life I already had a mental image of her long, straight hair, her slender frame and her caramel skin. I knew she was of mixed race. Our ancestry was told to me via both my grandma and my mum. Many stories about our family were shared as I helped set the table for dinner or flicked through photo albums at my grandparent’s home. I feel connected to my past and in return, more comfortable in my present.

I have photos of my parents dressed up to the nines, complete with greasy looking gerri curls and questionable fashion choices. They used to make me giggle as a kid and now I look at them and think ‘gosh I’m just like you guys’. I see them for the people they were and are, rather than just the parents they are to me. Each photograph tells its own story that I can’t wait to tell to the next generation.

Our history is rich, varied and worth sharing. We need to pass on our stories so they do not die.

I’ve actually decided to try and get as many of them written down, even if in scrap book form, just so those I may forget or distort are there for future generations to see. Have you ever done anything similar? How many generations back can you go and tell anecdotes about within your own family? I’m pleased to know quite a bit about my great-grandparents on both sides, it means my daughter knows of four generations of her family history, but at the same time I wish it were more.