The Flowering Vine: A Letter to Our White Great-Grandfather

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ancestry, black, colour, family, granddaughter, great grandfather, impact, inspiration, legacy of slavery, letter, life, mixed-race, offspring, reflections, relationships, white, Writing

Wow Lady G! What an amazing letter to your white grandfather. I don’t know if I could have worded this as well to my own white great, great grandfather, so can I say I echo your sentiments?
Thank you for sharing, this is so bitter-sweet…

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Dear Robert,

My name is Gwin and I am one of your great-grandchildren.  Today, I am writing to you in hopes that your soul has ascended to an elevated level of understanding and empathy-having left your dark and dense material world many years ago.

As you can see, I am not exactly what you might have expected.

I am not Caucasian.

I am a strong and beautiful brown-skinned girl.

I am Black.

We are Black.

You see, I am one of many.

We are the grandchildren of your son, Leroy.

From what I have been told, our grandfather spent quite a bit of time at your home with you and your other children.

In fact, he once showed me a knee injury that he sustained while playing on your farm.

So there’s no doubt in my mind that you knew him and he knew you.

But, do you know us?

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We write to “right”, right?

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birth, communication, creativity, death, emotion, expression, fears, harmony, healing, journey, life, poetry, struggle, words, Writing

When we need to feel the way we think we ought to feel, what’s the first thing we look for? We grab a pen and a sheet of paper and we mark that piece of paper with the deep stirrings of our heart. Feelings felt are emotional words which will not rest. Restless, they birth in the mind’s womb, children of (sometimes) unequal bedfellows. Having nothing in common save a lust for life and life at its best, not a life of struggle or unrest. And who does not want to live a life free from encumbrance of sadness, sickness, greed and grief? A life that meanders along a lane of lasting twists and turns and leads you lonely, lost and drowned in sorrows which forever abound.

Those children words in infancy come screaming, raw and red. They hit the paper with a bump. When washed free of literary placenta, they open their eyes and survey their surroundings: their parents if they are fortunate to have two, sigh with relief that they have all their fingers and their toes. They do not dress them in pink or blue, lemon or white they find will do. Those words, those precious longed for words, those words which never required IVF, fertilized by need, born to succeed, they speak the depths of the human heart. They utter the joy, they express delight, they sometimes quarrel noisily and fight. But each and every word that’s born to parents of their need to perform the seemingly endless tasks that life requires is always thankful their child was born.

We write to right the wrongs. We write to speak of our delight. We write to fight. We write for peace. We write to rally our battle cries. We write to herald birth. We write to make a friend of death. We write to champion life.

~ MEW 2016