Rashaun J. Allen's Blog, page 2

Ra’s Village Is Still Needed

Hey Peeps,

If you’re reading this blog post you’re one of the few people who are subscribed exclusively to rashaunjallen.com. I consider you all my first and oldest writing supporters. This blog has existed, evolved, and at sometimes stalled since 2015, but with 50 posts in its a site to behold. And guess what, I want to keep it going and I’m reaching out to you for help!

Writing demands more of me to strive in it as a career. And, I’m stuck juggling (losing at times and winner at moments) adjuncting courses at multiple colleges more so than being totally engaged in everything writing. (And this is before the uncertainty of the coronavirus pandemic!)

Still, I need my village and have started a Patreon page to gather as much help financially as possible. I went back and forth for months about if I should even start one. Why? There are many other investments personal and philanthropic I’m sure you all can make. But then I remembered some of the most successful artists from N.K. Jemisin to Issa Rae have anchored their artistic careers with a Patreon page.

To keep this brief, at least check out my video below and my Patreon page here and if you can support great, you’ll be getting exclusive access to my writing and process, if not maybe you can pass it along to someone who can.

Sincerely,

Ra

 

 

My Pop-Up Shop Is Open

 

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Peeps,

I was ready, willing, and able to go to The Book House of Stuyvesant and Arts Letters & Numbers in Albany, NY two weeks ago and The Bronx Book Fair this coming May. But unfortunately all three events were postponed.

And it sucks. Why? Not because I’m not able to sell books and share poems. It sucks because I was looking forward to connecting with old friends and making new ones this time around.

My partners and I are hoping to reschedule everything once this pandemic backs off. However, and in the mean time, I’m going to mail out any books you want to order while supplies last.

You wanted a signed copy of #TheBluesCryForARevolution?

You wanted a bundle of all three books?

Or just a classic bundle of #AWalkThroughBrooklyn & #InTheMoment. 

#RasBookTour has been postponed in these publishing streets, but the Pop-up Shop, where you can do all that and more, is LIVE!

-Ra

Thank You!!!

 

“Thank You!” Between the video and acknowledgments section of The Blues Cry For A Revolution there’s always more room to give props. Why? There are countless family, frat, and friends who poured into me. Whether it was opening y’all homes for me during my return to the states or freeing up an ear or two to listen to me talk. No, shout. Wait, yell, clap and laugh-too-loud.

Much appreciated!

You may purchase a copy of #TheBluesCryForARevolutionk here(or Indie book stores and B&N–per request and all major online retailers). If you pre-ordered a paperback it will arrive the week of January 21st and for a digital download Tuesday.

-Ra

—

Rashaun J. Allen is a writer, entrepreneur, poet, professor, and a Fulbright recipient. A past Vermont Studio Center and Arts Letters & Numbers resident whose three poetry collections: A Walk Through Brooklyn, In The Moment and The Blues Cry For A Revolution became Amazon Kindle Best Sellers. He has been a 2019 Tupelo Press 30/30 Project Poet, nominated for Sundress Publication’s 2018 Best of the Net Anthology in Creative Non-Fiction and was a 2017 Steinberg Essay Contest Finalist in Fourth Genre.

Behind The Book

Why is The Blues Cry For A Revolution broken down into three parts?

The Blues Cry For A Revolution is a poetry collection that navigates systemic oppression black victims, watchers, and resisters face in the United States. But initially, I was stuck coming up with a way to connect the feelings and lived realities that inspired the 40-poem collection. How can I write about oppression in a fresh way? Was a constant question I asked myself. Eventually, the answer became be “too original.” How? Show as many perspectives as poetry forms.

“For The Unknown Victims” was my first section and its perspective was to reframe black issues that dominate the media. (‘Cause black people dying ain’t the only newsworthy issue.) These poems attempt to shift the narrative to restructure our reactions. “For Brown Girls Whose Names Never Amber Alert,” is a poem that brings the reader’s attention to the sparingly covered epidemic of black girls who disappear. On the other hand, “For The Unknown Victims of Systematic Oppression” grapples with a convicted black man’s life in jail. In both poems, support disappears and hope falters. All the poems in this section were intentional in framing what us black people go through.

The second section, “For Those Who Watch” shows what we do witnessing similar tough-to-grapple-with situations. The poem “For Black Cops Who Bleed Blue,” reveals the complicated relationship a black cop has being a part of the American Justice System and yet unwelcome in his community. In the poem, “Bystanders,” the narrator witnesses another black man take advantage of a black woman and lives with the regret. More of the poems in this section live in the grey area of tough-to-grapple-with situations.

Where some of us live with the regret of inaction, others like the last section “Those Who Resist,” walk alternate paths and persevere. These poems show in many ways micro-resistance. Some of it is plain rage like in, “Blaxplosion.” Another way is raising awareness through black history as in “What Should I Call It?” Neither of these poems capture all examples of how black oppression is handled. But the goal, hope, and prayer is to stamp a lasting impression on the reader.

After reading The Blues Cry For A Revolution, will the reader willingly decide to be an unknown victim, watcher, or resister? Art at its core mirrors reality. And if the reader doesn’t like what’s being reflected then maybe my collection will nudge them forward to act.

—

Rashaun J. Allen is the first Fulbright scholar in SUNY Stony Brook’s MFA in Creative Writing & Literature program history. A Vermont Studio Center and Arts, Letters and Numbers residency recipient whose two independently published poetry chapbooks: A Walk Through Brooklyn and In The Moment became Amazon Kindle Best Sellers in African American Poetry. He has been nominated for Sundress Publication’s 2018 Best of the Net anthology in Creative Non-Fiction and was a 2017 Steinberg Essay Contest Finalist in Fourth Genre. His writing has appeared in TSR: The Southampton Review, Tishman Review, Rigorous, Auburn Avenue, Poui, Hypertext and River Styx.

The Blues Cry For A Revolution is Live

 

Award-winning Poet and Writer, Rashaun J. Allen’s The Blues Cry For A Revolution is a poetry collection that navigates systemic oppression black victims, watchers, and resisters face in the United States. The versatile collection serves not only as a voice for those who have suffered and a mirror to those who ignore reality, but also a message of bravery. Despite the harsh imagery, there is a call for a younger generation to persevere and overcome adversity.

Pre-Order Your Copy Today

            

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Short Story – A Game of Spades

Kiana, my girlfriend was up in arms about black unity. Kiana had come from a family full of black pride and felt she had an obligation to speak truth to power.

The blunt had circled us twice and I was feeling it. The rooftop cookout in Brooklyn had dwindled to five: Kiana, Abbigail, Khalil, Jeremy and me. Normally, two couples and a single guy would be odd numbers. But Jeremy was the plug—he brought the weed.

We were playing Spades, a card game where the objective is to win at least the number of books that were bid before play of the hand. The cards had been dealt on the laminate folding table when my partner, Khalil said, “We’re going for a Blind Boston.” An all or nothing move. He didn’t like to lose anything, not since winning the Little League Championship in Latin Soul Baseball twenty years ago.

Abbigail, Kiana’s partner for the game, blew smoke out her nose. Her caramel face twisted at the audacity. It was the only expression she showed the whole game. No surprise that she was able to put her Howard Law degree to good use as a successful trial lawyer.

“You’re better off trying to unify black people,” Jeremy joked. He was the only one who hadn’t gone to a real college—Kingsborough Community, didn’t count.

Kiana had not counted her books yet and Abbigail needed to know to bid their hand. But when I passed the blunt to Kiana, she pressed Jeremy instead, “Your ignorance is showing.”

Jeremy didn’t know he’d triggered her. He couldn’t see her face lying beside us on the beach chair. At this point, there was still time to hit rewind. Working with high school students every day, I knew a thing or two about conflict resolution. “What y’all going for?” I said.

Kiana begrudgingly leaned over the table to pass Jeremy the blunt. Her hand-off was a no-look pass. The tip of the blunt was blackened by her lipstick which matched her nails.

“Isn’t it obvious,” Abbigail said, “We only need a board to win.”

Khalil sat up to take his back up off against the wall. He took his fraternity pen out of his pocket and wrote, “40 under GDIs and 500 under Que Dogs.” The score was currently 460 to 0.

But Jeremy didn’t let the comment go. He took his two pulls in a hurry this time. Passing the blunt to Khalil without being told. “I speak the truth,” Jeremy said while he blew smoke out his mouth, “show me black unity and I’ll show you a sports team.”

“This nigga is wildin’,” Khalil said. He threw down an ace of hearts. Abbigail and Kiana flicked down two low numbered hearts on the table and my three of clubs closed the book. Khalil looked at me with a grin that failed to hide his teeth.

Kiana shoved the cards my way without giving Khalil or me the chance to decide who would be the book collector.  Next hand, Kiana threw out the little joker to cut Khalil’s king of hearts. But my big joker won the hand. What Abbigail threw out was irrelevant. It was what she said that had Kiana’s upper eyelids raised in a stare.

“Black people unifying is a Black-American problem,” Abbigail said. She saw herself as a first-generation Nigerian-American, her parents had sent her to Lagos every summer since she was twelve years old. “At my firm, a senior lawyer who’s a Ghanaian woman took me under her wing my first day. She’s been my second mother ever since.”

“But my frat bros are like that too,” Khalil said, not taking his focus off the game.

The queen of diamonds was my leadoff card. Khalil’s puzzled look resolved when Abbigail and Kiana’s diamond cards could not dethrone the Queen. But Khalil mistakenly passed the blunt to Kiana, who refused to remain silent.

“My 2nd great-grandfather was lynched for being black and successful,” she said while talking with her hands, “Imagine losing everything your family struggled for down south to head up north with nothing.”

“Wait, what happened?” Khalil said. He looked visibly shaken by Kiana’s story. It might have been the reason he threw out a spade to cut my king of diamonds. The book was still ours’ but he undermined our momentum. “I’m Bajan, but I don’t know my father, let alone my family’s history.”

“That’s why I get so freakin’ fed up with black people sometimes,” Kiana said, “We don’t connect the issues we faced yesterday to better understand tomorrow.” Kiana didn’t even breathe in deeply that pull instead she quickly passed the blunt to Khalil.

“This is the ongoing argument I’ve been having with Clayton,” she said, when she looked at me.

“Babe, let’s not bring us into this conversation,” I said, “don’t want you to harbor these feelings into the night.” Kiana had always been stubborn. Her fiery spirit is what made me fall for her. But I could do without her bullheadedness.

“He agrees with me that black people got work to do. You know buy black and be an advocate where you are. But then he refuses to step up to put the work in,” Kiana said.

Jeremy sat up in the beach chair looking to correct the situation. “Guys, I’m loving this conversation but the blunt just skipped me.”

The blunt was now the size of a roach, “You know that means it’s time to roll up again,” Khalil smirked.

“Only cause I’m loving the level we on,” Jeremy chuckled. He cracked a Dutch cigar from out of his pocket, poured out the tobacco in a plastic bag, split the cancer paper off and passed Khalil the weed to break up the buds on a fifty-dollar bill.

“I don’t deal with small nothing,” Khalil said.

“The game over?” I said.

Khalil and I had now won six books straight. But Khalil had led off with a spade that was left uncontested. Abbigail realized it was her turn and threw down a four of spades. She stared at me and said, “We gotta keep playing I want to know what y’all argue about.”

Kiana blew a kiss at me, “He told me the faculty at his school are all white with the exception of him and the Americorp volunteers. He’s been made the recruitment committee chair but refuses to bring up a proposal to push for diversity.”

Jeremy had finished licking the blunt and took a lighter to bond the weed and Dutch cigar tighter together. “That’s cool and all but what happened with your 2nd great-grandfather. That’s way more interesting than y’all argument,” Jeremy said.

Khalil put his fifty-dollar bill back in his pocket and passed me the book we won. “Not gonna lie that had me open like this kush got me high.”

Kiana was ushered by Abbigail’s hands to continue. “Clayton doesn’t realize it’s not about him,” Kiana said.

“How you talking about me and say it’s not about me,” I said, pissed that my issues had become a trial for Abbigail to relish over.  “You’re talking about diversity at my job when this convo started over black unity.”

Kiana placed her hands on her hips. “Isn’t your school a predominately black high school?”

“Yeah,” I nodded.

“Aren’t the parents of these students’ black?” she continued.

“Yeah, but beyond bullying, half of them are barely involved in their children’s education,” I said.

“That’s not the point. What would happen if you brought up you wanted the faculty to be more representative of the student body to the parents. What. Would. Happen?” Kiana said.

“Maybe one or two them would bite and let the principal know about their concern,” I said.

“Exactly and that would bring a unified front to your cause,” Kiana said.

“I just don’t think they’re that motivated,” I said.

“And that’s the problem. You stop without trying,” Kiana said, while shaking her afro head.

Without feeding into Kiana anymore, I led off with a two diamonds, the highest spade left in play.

“That’s ten books,” Khalil shouted so loud his dog tag shook like a pendulum. He collected the book and passed the blunt to Abbigail.

Abbigail choked from the pull of the second blunt. “But I’m confused what does that have to do with your 2nd great-grandfather?” Abbigail said.

Kiana stared across at Abbigail. I’m not sure if she was upset that Khalil and I were three books away from a Blind Boston or pissed Abbigail couldn’t make up her mind which story she wanted to hear.

“My 2nd great-grandfather’s community failed him,” Kiana said, “When a local group of whites in Wilmington, North Carolina put pressure on the black community to close down the Wilmington Daily Record for denouncing that black men were raping white women. He was willing to sacrifice a house he was working to buy on his father’s stolen land to stop it. Only his wife backed him. The whole damn town knew it was the first step in voter retaliation to overthrow the local government in a coup d’état.

“That’s crazy!” Khalil interrupted.

“Wilmington Riots of 1898 happened a day later. Most of the people killed – the ones who didn’t stand with him – were thrown in the river and are still not accounted for to this day. My 2nd great-grandmother made it up north to D.C. with their only daughter and one suitcase. He was hung from a tree and stripped naked of what he accomplished.”

By this time the sun had left us for the allure of the moon. I passed Kiana the blunt in a way that acknowledged her struggle. She took a long pull and paused.

“Cool story, bro,” Jeremy said. His sensitivity was turned off. Maybe that’s why he was single.

Abbigail gazed at Khalil and said, “If you ever go through a loss like that I’ll be by your side, like Kiana’s 2nd great-grandma.”

Khalil had put his remaining two cards in his hand down. “You ever think about the exhaustion that comes with fighting all the time?” he said to Kiana just before he kissed Abbigail on the lips. “When I’d ask my mom to tell me about my Pops, she always says, ‘Just be glad you don’t look like ‘em, talk like ‘em and damn sure ain’t no deadbeat like ‘em.’ Just before I got to college I stopped asking her.”

“You can’t ever give up,” Kiana said, maybe more for herself than for Khalil, when she passed the blunt to Jeremy.

“It’s levels to this shit,” Jeremy said. He blew smoke out his mouth making three oval-shaped clouds of smoke.

“Abbigail throw out your card,” I said. It was the last book in the game. If my count of the cards was correct there were only two spades left. The seven of spades in my hand, and a lower number.

Abbigail looked at her card. She took a deep breath and said, “Do you guys just want to call it a tie. We don’t have to pick a winner and just could continue talking.”

“Hell no,” I said. The satisfaction of winning was too close.

“You sure?” Abbigail said, “This could be the first step in building unity across black cultures. Clayton, you Black-Americans can appreciate this sort of Affirmative Action.”

Kiana distracted me by playing footsie under the table—her hint to go home and cuddle. I end up placing my card out of turn. My seven of spades was followed by Kiana’s heart, and Khalil’s club – neither had spades left and Abbigail threw out an eight of spades.

“Boom,” Abbigail yelled then the blunt went out in my hand.

Khalil pragmatically said, “It’s just a game, nothing’s at stake.”

Kiana said, “What if this wasn’t just a game of spades. And y’all had the chance to make a decision that wasn’t in your best interest, but would’ve helped the group. Would you have still played the same way?”

“Wait and see. It’s not like the game is over. The score is -100 to 400. Let’s play a couple more rounds,” Khalil said.

“Would you have still played the same way?” Kiana repeated.

Kiana didn’t wait for the cards to be handed out after Khalil shuffled. She stood up I thought to go to the bathroom. But then she said, “It’s up to me.” She threw the blunt on top of some of the cards, and grabbed her purse on her way down the steps.

I didn’t think a game of spades was that serious. But to Kiana the game was the only time we had to get ourselves together. Any further discussion proved we were in an impasse.

–

Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) received his MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from SUNY Stony Brook. He’s eyeing agents to help publish his coming of age story, Christine’s Dream – A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been published in TSR: The South Hampton Review and is forthcoming in The Tishman Review. When not writing he runs for the thrill of crossing the finish line. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com.

Music Review – Self Care

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“Sitting at home / trying to figure out what to do with all of these emotions / cause I’m alone going through the motions,” are the opening bars to Self Care a nine-song, 34-minute hip-hop / rap album Josué “JQ” Quiñones recently released. From when I met JQ at my LB’s birthday bash and up until now he’s been a rap enthusiast and dabbler. He had created a couple of tracks here and there and we even had a cypher in my old apartment in Bergen, NJ. Yet, I don’t think I saw his vision to be a rapper. So much so when he excitedly said, “I’m working on a project,” I imagined it would be more on the lines of Success is a Lifestyle paraphernalia like the shirts, sweaters, and hats he already sells. Nope. It was Self Care—JQ’s journey of dealing and overcoming self-doubt by creating music.

Once Self Care dropped I purchased my copy. However, I didn’t have any initial expectations. Would the tracks be filled with Eminem lyricism? Righteous like that, “I paid Sallie Mae Back” rapper?  Possibly, none of the above and etched in JQ’s own originality. But once I put my feet to the pavement to do a Chicago Marathon training run, I listened to Self Care from 14th Street to somewhere in Central Park, and then I texted JQ, “You should be proud.”

None of the beats from the snares in the intro track “Self Care pt. 1” by Flashbeats to the last track, “Self Care pt. 2” produced by Young N Fly out do JQ’s raps and overall message. In my favorite track “Wishin,” JQ’s voice and craft are potent here. He raps, I don’t want to be the guy / that says “he always saw it / but never lived it / said, “he always had that fire,”/ but never lit it. Those bars struck a chord with me. They’re relevant to me. How many times have my own ideas died once the excitement fizzled out?

Self Care is definitely a journey from JQ not letting his lesser thoughts get in the way of his better talents. Each track is like a 9-step program of recovery that can be summed up in JQ’s own words, “Everyone one of us travels with baggage / some of us never check it / that can turn out to be tragic / now in flight / you trying to fight / but frozen from all the damage / I pray one day you get saved eliminate your pain through passion. Those raps are from, “Passion Painful Purpose” a good track that could’ve been greater. JQ raps, “Recounting stories about how my Momma gave me my name,” and I’m thinking, he’s gonna reveal one story. But that doesn’t happen. Nor do listeners learn the meaning of his name. Ironically, this is the same track he raps, “Not everyone is gonna like what you put out but keep working.” So, true.

I know the passion and I witness the purpose but what about the pain? What led JQ to try to be perfect? What led him to believe his work ethic didn’t already set a standard for his peers or himself? Maybe the details are crazy and they’re too much to share. Maybe he hasn’t fully explored it. Self Care could be JQ just getting started and more of the pain led passion will show up in later projects. But for sure the talent and work ethic are there in Self Care and it’s an album that will be in my workout rotation for a while. And more importantly, I take careful note of what I need to do in order to show and take care of myself.

–

Rashaun J. Allen(@rashaunjallen)  holds an MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from SUNY Stony Brook and is the first Fulbright scholar in the program’s history. He has independently published poetry chapbooks: A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment. He has been published in TSR: The Southampton Review, Tishman Review, Rigorous, Auburn Avenue, Poui and Fourth Genre. When not writing he runs for the thrill of crossing the finish line. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com.

7 Generations – The Berry Don’ Drop too Far

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How are we related? My Great-grandmother Irene Trumpet and Gladys DePeiza are sisters. Ann, Tony, Ray, Jennifer and Granville (D.) are Gladys’ grandchildren. Ricky is Granville’s son. From left to right: Carrie (Ray’s son), Ray, me, Ricky, Tony’s wife, Tony, Sharon (Ricky’s girlfriend) From bottom left to right: Desiree (Ann’s daughter), Cherisse (Tony’s daughter), Lisa (Carrie’s wife), Leia (Carrie’s daughter), Arianna (Ann’s granddaughter) Ann, Rashid (Tony’s son) and Wendy (my cousin’s cousin)

When Miss Harriet Pierce asked me, “Would you like to do a presentation on your genealogy research in March?”

I had no idea how my research would develop. I had only been a week or two settled in Barbados and eager to make use of three things: my great-grandma Irene Trumpet nee DePeiza’s marriage and death certificates and my vision. But my own doubt and fear festered alongside my vision. Would I even discover anything worth sharing?

 I wanted to say, “I only expect to find Baptism, Death, and Marriage records.” But I simply said, “Yes!”

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Me & Miss Harriet Pierce (Librarian at the Barbados Museum & Historical Society)

My vision to write a memoir about my yearlong journey in Barbados was not a requirement of my Fulbright. The only requirement was two reports of my journey. The pressure to write an “African-American’s year-long journey to discover his caribbean roots” is, was my own.  But I wouldn’t have guessed that this genealogy research would have (1) led me to my Bajan family: meeting lots of cousins who are descendants of some of Great-grandma’s 10 siblings, (2) form family ties as grown-ups beyond the initial reconnection and (3) travel back 5 generations, 175 years, from my 3rd Great-granddad enslaved in Rock Dundo, St. James to myself who was born and raised in Brooklyn, New York.

My journey to connect with my Bajan heritage didn’t start with being the 1st Fulbright scholar in my SUNY Stony Brook’s MFA program history. It was much less grandeur. A search on ancestry.com here and there, a guessing of Great-grandma’s age at the Office of Vital Records in New York City, and an unorthodox array of questions to my Brooklyn family I grew up under to the extended cousins who are the children and grandchildren of my Grandma’s siblings. Did I lose you? My Mom, Christine Hunnicutt, was 1 of 5 children. Grandma, Carmen Trumpet was 1 of 4. And Great-grandma Irene Trumpet was 1 of 10. Keeping up with genealogy is a skill in itself. Especially for myself whose Great-grandma had three surnames. She was a Francis at birth, a DePeiza prior to marriage and a Trumpet from marriage to her deathbed. On my blog, rashaunjallen.com, I write a blog series called, 7-generations, that digs into my family tree to consider the impact of circumstances and decisions through the generations. I write about several of my family lines including those that descend from Barbados. That was the precursor to this journey. And the Fulbright granted me a key ingredient needed to make solid strides in my family tree—time. I paused my life in the United States: placed an apartment worth of items in storage and kissed my supportive girlfriend a “See you later.”

In time, I would meet several researchers Sophia Lewis, Patricia Stafford and Marcia Nurse all members of the genealogy group. Some of my new-found cousins: Marquetta Drakes (a 3rd cousin who found me through ancestry.com)—we were both barking up the same DePeiza family tree, Ingrid “Ann” Juliet Rosanne Carew who didn’t turn this Brooklyn kid away that came calling at her door, Clement “Tony” Wayne Anthony DePeiza who I found in the phonebook and Duran “Ricky” DePeiza who often was busy but always made time to introduce me to family all around the island. I would spend countless hours in the Barbados National Archives (Stacia Adams and the national archives team), St. James Parish Church (Rose), Supreme Court of Barbados (Miss Maynard and Miss Peggy Prescod), Barbados Land Registry, Barbados National Museum and Historical Society and any place connected to my Bajan family like Mount Standfast and Rock Dundo. I would be remiss not to speak about books that were inspiring and informative like Sugar in the Blood: A Family Story of Slavery and Empire by Andrea Stuart, A History of Barbados: from Amerindian Settlement to Caribbean Single Market by Hilary McD. Beckles, and Freedmen of Barbados: Names and Notes for Genealogical and Family Research compiled by Jerome S. Handler, Ronald Hughes, and Ernest M. Witltshire. All of this to find out what brought my family to today. Was it faith? Hustle? Survival instincts? But in trying to answer those questions I found myself asking different ones: Why does my 3rd great-grand have a Jewish last name “Pizar” on the slave records of William Hinds Prescod? Why did enslavers get reparations when those enslaved like my 3rd Great-granddad were given conditional freedom in the form of an apprentice labourship in the same place many of them were enslaved? A truth revealed from any of my questions led to more unanswered questions. The method to my madness was to aim for two sources to validate, contradict, or provide a new perspective from as many primary sources as possible from certificates to the oral history provided by older family members.

But Miss Harriet Pierce nudged me on like so many people before me who had come through the Shilstone Library doors looking for answers. That nudge turned into a well-received presentation called De Berry don Drop too Far at a genealogy meeting. What’s left? More questions that need answers. And I aim to turn all the journaling I did and documents I found into a memoir.

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To my right: Ray, Tanya, her son & daughter: Jonathan & Britney and their dad Glen to the far right Under me and to the right: Jennifer, one of her twin daughters: Jovanna, Carrie, his daughter: Leia, sons: Cayden & Cai, Carrie’s Mom: Eudine, his wife: Lisa To my left: Vincent and Sonia (my cousin’s cousins)

7 Generations – is a blog series that digs into my family tree to consider the impact of circumstances and decisions through the generations.

–

 

Rashaun J. Allen(@rashaunjallen)  holds an MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from SUNY Stony Brook and is the first Fulbright scholar in the program’s history. He has independently published poetry chapbooks: A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment. He has been published in TSR: The Southampton Review, Tishman Review, Rigorous, Auburn Avenue, Poui and Fourth Genre. When not writing he runs for the thrill of crossing the finish line. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com.

–

“Rashaunjallen.com is not an official Fulbright Program site. The views expressed on this site are entirely those of its author and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State or any of its partner organizations.”

7 Generations – My Foundation

“Why you never bought a house?” I said to Granddad one day on a college school break. He didn’t get offended. Nor did he shift his posture, remote in hand, sitting up watching jeopardy to turn to me on the other end of his full-size bed. Instead, he chuckled.

Charles E. Hunnicutt, my maternal granddad was known as Dad for two generations—his children and his grandchildren. By the time I lived with him, he had lived years into his retirement. But he still rose up before the sun to stare out of his kitchen window. His timing was on par with his sanitation shift he had held for 28 years of his life.

One of those days he found his wife, Grandma Carmen Trumpet slumped over in the living room. Two weeks prior, they had just added Mom, Christine Hunnicutt to their Brady Bunch of three daughters (one who he legally adopted) and son. They had planned to raise their children together in Breukelen projects. But at that moment the mission looked impossible.

Granddad’s chuckle blew hot air out his nose. He had been in this position before. His nose had been set on more concoctions of stink than there are definitions for set in the Oxford English Dictionary. He knew my question was grounded on twin false ideas—what I understood and what I knew. His life had revolved around another set of twins. Twin goals—saving up for retirement and providing for his children until they could take care of themselves. In Breukelen projects, neighbors—families with children like his own, were on a similar mission.

In Granddad’s three-bedroom apartment, he didn’t have to worry about the poverty that followed him like a shadow as a child. Although Brownsville, where he had grown up, was only a few miles away. The distance between the chapters in his life he had live through with his mom (Great-Grandma Grace) and his older sister after his father left, and his final chapter with me were so vast he took those stories to his grave.

 

***

 

Mom didn’t let us go a holiday without being with family. By the time I got into a video game, she would come into my room insisting I start getting ready.

“We’re going to your aunts,” she said, while holding a portable phone to her ear. It wasn’t clear which one of her three sisters she meant. I probably half listened while my fingers moved the directional pad on the controller to explore the depths of a role-playing game.

My aunts: Patsy, Grace and Vicki played an important role to Mom. They were her only household presence to being female. They formed a sisterhood of trust that was grounded on one principle: family (I could literally count on one hand the other people she would let watch me).

On Thanksgiving we took the L train to the J to Aunt Patsy’s co-op apartment. For Christmas we trained and then bused it to Queens to Aunt Vicky’s apartment where she had a living tree impose itself in her living room off sheer height. And on July 4th or Labor Day we hoped on the B6 to East New York to reach Aunt Grace’s door steps where she hosted a cook out.

Mom had me carry potato or macaroni salad until we arrived or she grew tired of me holding it without a care. Whether it was intended or not here she transformed into the baby sister the youngest of five born on September 4th, 1962. But she wouldn’t blow up over anything her sisters would say even after I heard one say, “You’re looking fat.”

The family was more important than her own individual feelings, a source of hope through despair. The support no matter how it was fashioned, “Chris, I’ll watch your son whenever you need to get yourself together” or “let’s take our kids on a trip” had help make raising me by herself look like magic. That bond is what keeps me searching through the generations. It is not just to see to the good times or bad. But to find and preserve the courage it took to live through it all.

 

7 Generations – is a blog series that digs into my family tree to consider the impact of circumstances and decisions through the generations.

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) received his MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from SUNY Stony Brook. He’s eyeing agents to help publish his coming of age story, Christine’s Dream – A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been published in TSR: The South Hampton Review and is forthcoming in The Tishman Review. When not writing he runs for the thrill of crossing the finish line. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com.

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“Rashaunjallen.com is not an official Fulbright Program site. The views expressed on this site are entirely those of its author and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State or any of its partner organizations.”

7 Generations – The Promise Land

Mary C. Galley, my 2nd Great-grandma was born one day in January 1865 in Wilmington, North Carolina. She was only months old when the 13th amendment abolished slavery. She wouldn’t have known if she was a black girl born enslaved unless her namesake mother Mary Pearce told her point blank, “You were born free.” Like herself at least as far back as the 1850 United States Federal Census could portray back then my 8-year-old 3rd Great-grandma.

2nd Great-grandma Mary grew up under her carpenter father Joshua Galley who owned $200 dollars in real estate and housekeeper Mom who couldn’t write at 28 years old when the family was enumerated in 1870. She was the middle child between her four brothers: Joshua Galley Jr., James Galley, David Galley and Charles Galley. At 5 years old Mary might have seen the fed soldiers around the port city governing over the reconstruction south to enforce the 13th, 14th and 15th constitutional amendments passed between 1868–1870.

Wilmington was somewhere between a safe haven and impeding oppression for black folks. Freedmen became a powerful voting bloc. Institutions like Wilston Academy taught freed slaves and anyone seeking an education. Black folks even separated from missionary churches to build and run their own congregations like St. Marks. Finally, building black-owned business like the Wilmington Daily Record.

By May 15th, 1886 2nd Great-grandma Mary was married to Armstrong Johnson, a colored man who was the son of then deceased Sidney Johnson and his still living mother Nancey Davis. All four of them had called Wilmington home.

I grew up hearing about the Wright brothers soaring the North Carolina sky in the 1900s. But I didn’t hear enough about what happened on the ground. Daniel Kopf writes in The Great Migration: The African American Exodus from the South, “from 1890 to 1910, at the very least, an average of 119 African Americans were lynched yearly.” White southern folks feared their way of life was crumbling forever.

This was the climate that had many like 2nd Great-Grandma Mary set her eyes on the North. A chance to escape persecution, search out jobs and evade Jim Crow Laws. But by the 1900s, she was 35 years old and a widowed single mother raising her daughter Grace in Wilmington. I don’t know what happened to her husband. I have found a death certificate of a black man named Armstrong Johnson who died in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania on March 30th, 1914. But there is no sufficient information to claim him my 2nd Great-granddad since his decedent placed his birthplace in Virginia not Wilmington or anywhere in North Carolina.

1910 Washington D.C. was everything 1900 Wilmington was not. While the woman suffrage of 1913 was taken place, 2nd Great-Grandma Mary lived through the Wilmington Race Riot of 1898. Waves of black folks left Wilmington and everything they had behind. I wonder if she ever saw or heard from her brothers once she moved to D.C.

Life in Washington D.C. had 2nd Great-grandma Mary at 42 years old the head of household earning a wage in the laundress industry. She was able to read, write and rented a home. World War I was going on but I imagine she was aiming to keep her world intact. Her dying on October 14th, 1947 at 82 years old was in her daughter’s family registry. Maybe she died in Washington D.C.

But by then my Great-Grandma Grace was separated from her husband Eugene Hunnicutt with two children: Grandaunt Lucile and Granddad Charles in Brooklyn, NY. I don’t know if Great-Grandma Mary ever left Washington D.C. to meet her grandchildren.

Washington D.C. had its own fair share of problems but those were nothing like the days left behind. If 2nd Great-Grandma Mary only wishes had been to get her and her daughter Grace a decent life away from harm, then by leaving the south she found her promise land.

 

7 Generations – is a blog series that digs into my family tree to consider the impact of circumstances and decisions through the generations.

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) received his MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from SUNY Stony Brook. He’s eyeing agents to help publish his coming of age story, Christine’s Dream – A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been published in TSR: The South Hampton Review and is forthcoming in The Tishman Review. When not writing he runs for the thrill of crossing the finish line. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com.

Notes:

Year: 1870; Census Place: Wilmington, New Hanover, North Carolina; Roll: M593_1151; Page: 382A; Image: 471; Family History Library Film: 552650

Margaret M. Mulrooney’s Wilmington, North Carolina’s African American Heritage paints a vivid picture of the black community.

  North Carolina, Marriage Records, 1741-2011

   Year: 1900; Census Place: Wilmington Ward 1, New Hanover, North Carolina; Roll:1208; Page: 3A; Enumeration District: 0066; FHL microfilm: 1241208

Year: 1910; Census Place: Precinct 6, Washington, District of Columbia; Roll: T624_152; Page: 2B; Enumeration District: 0112; FHL microfilm: 1374165

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“Rashaunjallen.com is not an official Fulbright Program site. The views expressed on this site are entirely those of its author and do not represent the views of the Fulbright Program, the U.S. Department of State or any of its partner organizations.”