Rashaun J. Allen's Blog, page 5

7 Generations – What’s Left Behind

“Grandma Grace is in the middle of my brother’s head,” Aunt Vicki texted then sent the photo. I immediately recognized Granddad Charles, a much younger and vibrant man than I had lived with. But [image error]this woman couldn’t be my Great-grandma Grace. She didn’t fit my imagination on the melanin spectrum. She wasn’t dark brown like her son but high yellow like her daughter.

I couldn’t stare at my Iphone 5 screen any longer without clarity. I dialed Aunt Vicki.

“Where is Great-grandma Grace? That lady is Granddad’s sister.”

Aunt Vicki chuckled over the phone, “No, Shaunie. Aunt Lucile looks just like Grandma. I wish I had a better picture. One in color. One with more detail. Maybe I’ll find more. Maybe you can do something with it over the computer.”

I became a still picture. Like the moment that picture captured of these nine people. Three who are family; the rest possible close friends. But everyone was smiling even the face that is half out the frame. This had to be before Granddad Charles and Grandma Carmen’s youngest, Aunt Vicki and my mother, were born. What were they celebrating?

The celebration is a moment to remember. All the men have on suits. And all the women have on dresses. Maybe that was the standard of the times. They gathered inside a small kitchen, no a dining room somewhere in New York.

Great-grandma Grace seems to be proud of her son. Her brittle hand over his broad shoulder while he leaned in reflecting how close they were. The smiles don’t seem scripted but genuinely made. As if this is a moment they were free from all they couldn’t control. Like Great-grandma’s husband Eugene Hunnicutt had long been out the picture. Neither his wife or son are caught in the past. But standing up and able for the future.

Great-Grandma Grace looks no older than her late fifties or early sixties. Although the picture is black and white, I can tell that her hair has grey and black streaks competing for dominance. This picture shows nine people during a celebration none of them want to forget.

Great-Grandma Grace didn’t like to forget anything. She had been the only ancestor I found who kept a family register of her children’s names; marriage dates of her son and her own; and her parents’ names and birth places. But when she died on September 6th 1963, her son left the death certificate’s date of birth blank. A grown son should know his mother’s birthday. But Granddad Charles informed that she was 73 years old. Maybe Great-grandma Grace not knowing her own birth date made her capture everyone’s important dates.

Great-grandma Grace was a resident of Brooklyn, New York for 35 years. The other half of her life she had lived in Washington D.C. But it wasn’t her birthplace.  She was born in North Carolina like both her parents, per the 1910 United States Federal Census. The same year she will marry. But at that time Great-grandma Grace is 18, single, and living in her mother’s D.C. home. She’s a Cook in the hospital industry not a White House Cook like the family myth. Maybe it’s a white hospital. A 1900 Census would help place her teenage years.

Great-grandma Grace would have been an infant, while 2nd Great-grandma Mary C. Galley was a 35 year old widow making her Great Migration from Wilmington, North Carolina. I have no evidence that suggests her husband Armstrong Johnson made it. Nor do I know when the move took place. A birth certificate may help clarify when Great-Grandma Grace was born and when her mother took exodus.

The difference between Wilmington, North Carolina in 1890s and Washington D.C. in the 1910s was a literal life and death. A Coup D’ Tat took place in 1898 in that southern state. Great-grandma Grace, who was born in 1890 in North Carolina, would’ve been about eight years old when it happened.

Granddad Charles named his 1st daughter his Mom’s namesake. Only Gracie, a variant, that would be changed back. But Great-Grandma Grace’s maiden name was Johnson like her father’s last name. But it maybe a sort of slave name since Johnson is not a name that comes from West Africa or any part of Africa. There is so much missing. But like Great-grandma Grace I capture information, constantly trying never to forget. Hoping, I can no longer ask what’s left behind.

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. When not writing he runs for the thrill of crossing the finish line. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com

Framed In Excellence – Finding A Way

It was mile 15 when the right side of my body cramped running the NYC marathon. It had to be the physical manifestation of one throbbing thought, “Quit.”

I don’t know when it showed up. This would be my second marathon and first time running one of the largest in the U.S. I had put together 15 weeks of Nike App training. Translation: waking up at 5 AM on the regular to run through Passaic county. When that failed putting hours on a 24-hour fitness treadmill. Weeks prior, I had injured my left tendon running an 18 mile warm up. But nothing felt like this. Why did all my yoga stretching decide to fail me now?

It’s hard to find an excuse to quit when I’ve seen people that don’t fit the elite runner profile: light weight, sub 5 miles from Eritrea, giving it their all. Once I saw a man on crutches run his way through a 10K. Now I was witnessing a blind runner do this 26.2 miles. Besides being attached by bracelets alongside another runner he had to find the will without seeing the road.

I took a deep breath to find a rhythm to run to; sometimes counting while pushing for 180 seconds then pacing for 60. I couldn’t visualize what borough I was running like the 3D mapped displayed at the expo. When I’m in the zone I forget everything else around me. I settle for any piece of information.

“What mile is this?” I ask another runner.

“Just keep going,” she says.

The run has nothing to do with my body. Running three days a week with an occasional weight training day only proves my body is physically able. But crossing the finish line is a mental decision.

By now my pace has dropped almost two full minutes. People I had passed are now the wind blowing by. I’m not racing them, my reason to run is my own. But if anyone would have asked, “How you holding up?” A head nod is all I could offer.

This race is different from training. A lot of times it’s you versus nature. But here from the 1st mile and beyond there’s sign holding and bell swinging cheering us on. Other runners beside me are pushing themselves. The look on their faces says it all. One, or me, no all of us hit a Super Mario made star for kicks.

By about mile 20 Ray, a college buddy taps me on the shoulder, “You good bruh?” I was stunned that I see him. At first, I thought I had fallen way behind that people who started in the wave after me had lapped me. But I missed my actual starting time.

“I’m good. I’ll crawl to finish if need be.”

We jog together for a couple of miles. I hear and see people I know in the crowd. One friend did her own marathon trying to time her arrive with my miles. But then Ray cramps up. It’s like all my doubts and fears jumped from my body into his. He couldn’t feel his leg than his body didn’t agree with his head. I make a decision I never did as a runner. I’ll see him to the finish line regardless if I break my personal record.

It wasn’t about being the fastest. I wasn’t. It was about digging deep inside and bringing forth the best offering of myself. We ran more miles until finally we got through Harlem into central park for mile 23.

The steep hills were mostly gone. But my feet felt on fire. I would find out later I ran a hole in one. What separated my toes from the concrete were my Asics soles.

But my energy was returning. Like mile 9 when my feet felt loose. A handful of miles left and I’m hungry for more. Keron, a training partner shouts me out in the crowd. Without exchanging words, he knew I had to exceed expectations. That’s how we run.

I had told myself I would never do something like this again. Only crazy people took strides outside of comfort. I didn’t see the athlete in me. The last sport I’ve officially played was intramural college basketball. But I had found a fire for running from working out. Back then I didn’t want to have a ripped chest with string bean legs. Now this black man runs!

Once I ran my first 5k run. I felt I should keep going. If I willingly take on the challenge of running maybe, I would be prepared to handle life’s misfortunes. It was the same motivation needed to write. Thoughts of it sprinkling in my mind as I pounded the pavement and when I wrote wondering how fast I could get. Could I run a mile in under six minutes? Could I run 100 miles in a month? Could I keep going in life and in this marathon when even I said give up?

I keep going until I faintly see the sign. The race has gotten narrow and my phone has died. Note to self: never waste your battery on the shuttle ride to a race. Then I push a little harder to run across the finish line. The answer was simple. The will to do it was always better than the skill.

 

Framed In Excellence is a blog series that show how African Americans pursue the American Dream despite being woven into dangerous, unsafe and vulnerable spaces within our nation

 

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. When not writing he runs for the thrill of crossing the finish line. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com

Book Review – Rain For Under Watered Roses Like You And I

 

 

Rain For Under Watered Roses Like You And I by Tammy “Poe-it” Lopez is about 62 pieces of powerful poetry. The poetry collection is sewed around a conversation with a best friend. This best friend happens to be “You,” who has seen some of the worst stuff life has had to offer “Poe-it” like an alcohol addicted father.

I’ve heard Tammy perform her poetry. But would the book deliver the wordplay and emotional depth she shows on stage? The answer is foreshadowed by perusing the titles of her poems.

Her poems are more focused on the vulnerability, hurt and reconciliation surrounding men. But the poems that I enjoyed the most had broader themes like, “Letters from Hispaniola,” which deals with the narrator identifying her multi-layered self. She writes, “I remember Spain like it was yesterday,” the piece then travels through Hispaniola (the original name for the island of the Dominican Republic and Haiti) to acknowledge her African roots.

She used many forms of poetry to get her message across: a haiku in “The Haiku I never Used,” prose poetry in “Missing Peace,” “Insanity Lies Enlightenment,” and “Reign.” But most of her poems are written in free verse like “First Fall for Self,” “This Ain’t Me,” and “The Game of Life.” “Astral Projection” is one of her few poems that are less concrete and more metaphorical.  My favorite poem in this collection is, “High School Textbooks.” She used a textbook as a metaphor to turn to the right pages from bad situations:

“Page 56.

You look for love. In all the wrong places, it is right in front of you, see page 67.”

Being a self-published author myself, I’m aware of the diligence required to put out a quality piece of art. There are few if any self-published missed steps present. I only noticed the table of contents was off by a page from “Testing the Water.” However, she has formatted her poetry to create shape poems for example in, “Chlorophyll the Empty,” is organized as a tree like its first line, “girls like me grew up like trees,” adding another layer of art.

Disclaimer I know Tammy and I was acknowledged in her book. But I do think if you’re a fan of poetry or spoken words you won’t be disappointed. I recommend you check out Tammy’s body of work. Her words pop like jumping jacks from the pages to your ears.

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) is an MFA in Creative Writing and Literature candidate at SUNY Stony Brook, where he is working on Christine’s Dream – A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of  A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been featured in The South Hampton Review. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com

Book Review – This Is How You Lose Her

This Is How You Lose Her by Junot Diaz like the title alludes to is nine short stories about relationships. No, it’s not the “love at first sight type.” The short stories are somewhere between what was hoped for and the muddiness of what is in relationships. In “Miss Lora” the reader follows Junior’s romance with an older woman. While in “The Cheater’s Guide To Love” Junior tries to reignite the flame with the love of his life after being caught cheating with fifty girls.

The nine stories lost a little flare by not having a connecting plot. But most are intertwined beyond theme through the characters: Junior, Rafa (Junior’s older brother), Mami and Papi appearing in most of the stories. There is this notion of time progressing for changes like Rafa’s cancer in “Nilda” is accounted for in another story.

After reading two of Junot Diaz books, I feel like the second point of view is his most explosive way to tell a story like he does in “Alma”, “The Cheater’s Guide to Love”, “Flaca” and “Miss Lora.” At least four other short stories are written in the first point of view and “Orravida, Ortravez” is the only story where a woman is the narrator.

A popular writing adage is “write what you know.” Junot does this through the family dynamics woven into each short stories. Rafa who could do no wrong in his Mami’s eyes. Mami whose inability to speak English disconnects her from the community. And Papi who refuses to reveal his whereabouts to Mami beyond “working” brings Dominican stories to a larger audience.

I recommend teaching This Is How You Lose Her. I taught “The Cheater’s Guide To Love” alongside “What Do We Talk About When We Talk About Love” by Raymond Carver and the class preferred Junot Diaz. This book is also good for writers who want to see more complex prose and people who love and are curious about Dominican culture.

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) is an MFA in Creative Writing and Literature candidate at SUNY Stony Brook, where he is working on Christine’s Dream – A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of  A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been featured in The South Hampton Review. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com

Protest 101 – Rules to Stand By

You feel passion about an injustice? You realize a law is not a right? Step up and step into a situation to change. Here are a couple rules to play the political game.

 

Rule 1 – Set a goal to spread awareness about an issue. Put pressure on those in power to make a specific change.

Rule 2 – Chose a location. It could be practical, symbolic or done through social media.

Rule 3 – Set a time to make your move. You want to have the largest crowd and an immense impact.

Rule 4 – Know your landscape. Find out from city officials whether you need permission to gather. It may sound counterintuitive but you don’t want the protest to be disbanded without traction.

Rule 5- Plan the event to the end. Who will speak? What will you chant? Where will you march? And how will you share knowledge about the issue? If you’re like me you may use art.

Rule 6 – Publicize the protest. Treat your protest like a commercial and make sure everybody sees it.

Rule 7- Bring everything needed. Use your head to gather posters, flyers and first aid.

Rule 8 – Dress for the situation. Dress for comfort. Dress to be unified and know you may be dressed in handcuffs.

Rule 9 – Emergency supplies. Grab your ID card and protest permit. Don’t forget a rag soaked in apple cider stored in a plastic bag. This will stop tear gas from making you cry.

Rule 10 – Protests are unpredictable. If you’re not the organizer know as much about the group you’re protesting with as possible.

Rule 11 – Know your rights like your job. You have rights as a protestor and learn how to deal with cops. If a cop asks to search you, you have the right to decline. But they may take the liberty to arrest you.

Rule 12 – Protest safely. Don’t create any situation that can be used against you. All it takes is vandalism to destroy your protest.

Rule 13 – Control the narrative. Make sure someone’s able to record or write your story. Misinformation can go viral quicker than the truth.

Rule 14 – All rules are breakable. A revolution calls for antagonizing and disrupting any state that is fundamentally and systematically against the people.

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) is an MFA in Creative Writing and Literature candidate at SUNY Stony Brook, where he is working on Christine’s Dream – A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of  A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been featured in The South Hampton Review. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com

Protest 101 – Rules to Protest

You feel passion about an injustice? You realize a law is not a right? Step up and step into a situation to change. Here are a couple rules to play the political game.

 

Rule 1 – Set a goal to spread awareness about an issue. Put pressure on those in power to make a specific change.

Rule 2 – Chose a location. It could be practical, symbolic or done through social media.

Rule 3 – Set a time to make your move. You want to have the largest crowd and an immense impact.

Rule 4 – Know your landscape. Find out from city officials whether you need permission to gather. It may sound counterintuitive but you don’t want the protest to be disbanded without traction.

Rule 5- Plan the event to the end. Who will speak? What will you chant? Where will you march? And how will you share knowledge about the issue? If you’re like me you may use art.

Rule 6 – Publicize the protest. Treat your protest like a commercial and make sure everybody sees it.

Rule 7- Bring everything needed. Use your head to gather posters, flyers and first aid.

Rule 8 – Dress for the situation. Dress for comfort. Dress to be unified and know you may be dressed in handcuffs.

Rule 9 – Emergency supplies. Grab your ID card and protest permit. Don’t forget a rag soaked in apple cider stored in a plastic bag. This will stop tear gas from making you cry.

Rule 10 – Protests are unpredictable. If you’re not the organizer know as much about the group you’re protesting with as possible.

Rule 11 – Know your rights like your job. You have rights as a protestor and learn how to deal with cops. If a cop asks to search you, you have the right to decline. But they may take the liberty to arrest you.

Rule 12 – Protest safely. Don’t create any situation that can be used against you. All it takes is vandalism to destroy your protest.

Rule 13 – Control the narrative. Make sure someone’s able to record or write your story. Misinformation can go viral quicker than the truth.

Rule 14 – All rules are breakable. A revolution calls for antagonizing and disrupting any state that is fundamentally and systematically against the people.

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) is an MFA in Creative Writing and Literature candidate at SUNY Stony Brook, where he is working on Christine’s Dream – A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of  A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been featured in The South Hampton Review. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com

Book Review – The Dew Breaker

The Dew Breaker by Edwidge Danticat was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award for Fiction. Sometimes, I read accolades like this and go, “I’ll be the judge of that.” But after a close read of her nine-story collection, I was reminded Edwidge slays with her pen.

Writing nine short stories that stand alone are what readers expects. But Edwidge ups the ante by creating stories that are all part of a larger plot. Each one follows the lives affected by the dew breaker, a Haitian man with a scar on his face, who like the name in Creole implies torturers people as part of the Milicient, the Volunteers for National Security in Haiti under the Sovereign One. But I wonder if The Dew Breaker was written as one fiction story following the antagonist would it be as impactful?

Edwidge’s writing is immersed in the Haitian diaspora. Regardless if her characters are placed in Haiti or a place like Flatbush that has a strong Haitian community. The language, music and references reflect her passion for her people. However, she makes the choice to write dialogue in English that has taken place in Creole. Although it helps make context clearer for none Creole speakers, I’d much rather infer what’s being said from the context.

Her characters are well-developed and flawed. In the short story titled, The Dew Breaker the reader meets a preacher obsessed with empowering his congregation at the expense of his wife and ultimately his life. He’s juxtaposed against the dew breaker, who although sometimes enjoys his cruel acts wishes for an opportunity to live a more humane life.

She fills her writing with a variety of literary devices to make her fiction come alive. In The Book of Miracles, she uses song lyrics and in The Funeral Singers she frames the story in weeks. My favorite technique she used was giving “Two trees, 10 feet apart,” a math problem. (I thought writers shied away from math). With the exception of The Book of the Dead and Monkey Tails being written in first-person, the other seven stories are written in third-person. I didn’t notice any difference in ability to convey a moving story.

I would recommend this book for writers who want to learn about craft, teachers looking to teach short story and anyone who has a strong interest in the Haitian diaspora.

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) is an MFA in Creative Writing and Literature candidate at SUNY Stony Brook, where he is working on Christine’s Dream – A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of  A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been featured in The South Hampton Review. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com

Book Review – Going To Meet The Man

Going to Meet the Man by James Baldwin is his collection of eight short stories. More so this collection is telling of the writer he was a writer who uses words like a surgeon.

Coming into this collection I had heard the excitement critics and readers alike had about James Baldwin. But now I can say I understand. In each story, the reader feels like he or she is part of it. And it doesn’t matter if the story is written in the first person like Previous Condition, Sonny’s Blues and This Morning, This Evening, So Soon or the third person like the other stories the result is the same.

His stories do not seem to contain fluff. The dialogue in each pushes the plot. He also used a letter in Sonny’s Blues, as a vehicle to give the reader Sonny’s perspective of his troubles which otherwise is narrated by his brother.

His cast of characters go beyond color, profession, social norms and most importantly they have depth. In This Morning, This Evening, So Soon, the reader meets a minor character Vidal a lesbian “who is always looking for a girl,” and Boona, a Tunisian accused of stealing. In Going To Meet The Man, the readers finds out how a picnic brought to as a child leads Jesse a Deputy Sheriff to be a racist.

Finally, there are a ton of sentences that stayed with me after reading the short stories. James shows in Sonny’s Blues what playing Jazz means to Sonny when he writes, “Here, I was in Sonny’s World. Or rather, his kingdom. Here, it was no question that his veins bore royal blood.” He shows this again in Come Out The Wilderness characterizing Paul’s relationship with Ruth. “Paul was always preparing the way for one unlikely exploit or flight or another, it was the reason he told Ruth “Everything.” To tell everything is a very effective means of keeping secrets.”

The only issue I can think about in this collection is being left with the feeling James knew more about his characters than he chose to share. Going to Meet the Man is worth the read for book lovers and writers alike.

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) is an MFA in Creative Writing and Literature candidate at SUNY Stony Brook, where he is working on Christine’s Dream – A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of  A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been featured in The South Hampton Review. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com

Book Review – No Where Is A Place

Nowhere Is A Place by Bernice McFadden is a multigenerational family story. It begins with Sherry, a woman who has seldom contact with her family until two relationships – one bad, one good – triggers a desire for self-reflection. This leads to a journey with her mother, Dumpling, across the country to a family reunion. During their journey, Sherry shares her desire to write a story about their family history. The story then goes back and forth between Sherry and Dumplings present day reconnection to Sherry’s book in progress of their Native American and Southern roots.

The story did not click for me at first. Mostly because the two stories didn’t naturally mesh with each other. The present day story is told in the first point of view while the past story is told in the third person. Often times scene changes between the two came off abrupt and sudden; lessening the attachment to the present characters like Sherry and Dumpling and past characters like Brother, Suce, Lovely. But if readers stay with the story to the end he/she will find like me an intricate narrative that deals with slavery, sexual abuse, and freedom coming together in the end.

Bernice’s writing style has the ability to draw deep into a word to show layers of a particular moment. Her sentences are varied. Her characters are complex. And she does a good job at giving her characters’ distinct voices.

Nowhere Is A Place was inspired by Bernice McFadden’s own genealogical research. If you’re curious about what to do with your own genealogical research take note. As someone who studies family history, Nowhere Is A Place provides one way to tell my families’ story.

If you’re the type of person who wants a simple story leave this book alone. But if you like to see an author push a narrative that goes beyond love and loss to show tragedy and rebirth check this sister out.

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Rashaun J. Allen (@rashaunjallen) is an MFA in Creative Writing and Literature candidate at SUNY Stony Brook, where he is working on Christine’s Dream – A Memoir of Love, Loss & Life. He is the author of  A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment and has been featured in The South Hampton Review. Find more of his work at www.rashaunjallen.com

7 Generations – Not Black, Nor White

“I was the darkest of my siblings,” Grandma said, “he reminded me everyday how he treated me.”  Arlene Allen, is my paternal Grandma, the matriarch of the Allen family. But at this moment, she was the child her father hurt.

I doubt I showed shock. My jaw didn’t drop. Nor did my eyes bulge. We were at her home, a three-bedroom apartment, in Breukelen projects.  She had to be on the computer – playing spades. She always played spades. I had to be eating. She often fed me, when I came over. Got offended, if there was no room in my stomach to eat.

As I sat and tried to listen – I had a bad habit – more questions brewed. Were your parents married? How many siblings do you have? What was a day in the life like? To think, I was winging ‘em. Inquisitive. I didn’t want it to feel like an interview. More informal. Less button pushing. I hadn’t come across Fifty Questions For Family History Interviews by Kimberly Powell yet. But my mind had just piece together, an important detail.

I imagined how she may of grew up. Born in Brooklyn, New York on May 29th, 193X the – black sheep – out of eleven children. A line – sort of like the brown paper bag test – was drawn amongst her siblings.  Her complexion was lighter than a brown bag, lighter than my caramel complexion, but still too dark a shade for her father. Why? What made this small detail of a woman – who would become a mother, devout Christian, community feeder, sharp talker – matter? Maybe it was a combination of our family history.

“William Allen, was my father’s name,” Grandma said. My Great-Granddad, was born in Danville, Pittsylvania, Virginia at the turn of the twentieth century on January 1st, 1900 (This corroborated the oral history told to me). But the 1900 United States Federal Census stated he was born exactly a year prior. More intriguing is his race is labeled as white. Oscar P. Allen and Lydia A. Allen – my 2nd great-grand parents, are listed as white as well. Maybe beyond complexion – white – represented a social status to him.

The 1910 Untied States Federal Census, echoed this social status. By the time William is eleven years old, the Allen family, who lived in Cople, Westmoreland, Virginia has grown to include four sons – my Great-Granddad, James, Lewis P and Benjamin. But what stands out in this census includes Minnie Johnson and Earnest Johnson – two black people – who were listed as servants. Minnie was a laundress and Earnest was a laborer; both were listed as wage earners. Yet, the only people above nine years’ old who couldn’t read (and didn’t attend school) in the household were the Johnsons. Maybe this idea – this colored view of reality – first found its way when Great-Granddad William was a child, who could have viewed the Johnsons as beneath him.

Although being a servant and darker complexion are not exclusive. The reality many black and brown folks – only 45 years removed from slavery – faced could argue a case. I don’t know what happen in Great-Granddad William’s youth. The work he did. His schooling. Anything that would show he had learned anything different. To find out more I turned to his father.

“His father didn’t want him to marry my mother,” Grandma Arlene said.  But my Great-Granddad William married her anyway. But why would my 2nd Great-Granddad, Oscar Allen, take such a position? Maybe a case of Romeo and Juliet – feuding families? Maybe Great-Grandma Beulah – a first generation American – wasn’t American enough? The Allen’s family tree went back at least another three generations in the United States – the late 1700s. More likely Great-Grandma Beulah may have been kissed by the sun more so than any Allen.

Great-Grandma, Beulah Fernandez was born in Rock Hill, South Carolina on November 28th, 1907. Her father, Edward Fernandez – my 2nd great-granddad was born in Spain (Although no census I’ve found supported this oral history) on February 3rd 1882. Her mother, Daisy Green, – my 2nd Great-Grandmother was born around 1892 in Chester County, South Carolina.  They both identify as Negro on a 1930 Untied States Federal Census.

But if Great-Granddad William looked at his daughter, Grandma Arlene as too dark what made his wife, Great-Grandma Beulah the exception? Who knows? Certainty, his Great-Grandchildren, myself included, would not pass any paper bag test.

At Grandma Arlene’s apartment, when I’m over for a holiday dinner or just to shoot the breeze – we rarely talk complexion. Like many black families, we have shades of black. But for Grandma Arlene her complexion hits a chord close to home.

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) is the author of A Walk Through Brooklyn & In The Moment. He has been featured in several publications such as: The Chronicle, The Troy Record, Albany Student Press & UA Magazine. Find his books at www.Royalbluepublishing.com and follow his personal blog at www.rashaunjallen.com.

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