All Her Little Secrets

by Wanda M. Morris

So, Ellice Littlejohn . . . now what kind of name is that?” “Excuse me?” I said. “Littlejohn? I mean it’s not very common. What kind of name is that? Where d’ya come from with a name like that?” Was this guy serious? I glanced around the deck, stunned and offended at the same time. Half the Black people I know can’t trace their lineage past their great-grandparents. Who are my people? My people are his ancestors’ chattel. “Well, I haven’t done my Ancestry.com research, but I suspect my name comes about much like yours. From our shared ancestors, huh? I would love to hear about where your ancestors immigrated from, but maybe we can do that another time. Would you excuse me for a moment?” He blinked, stunned to silence. I sat my champagne flute on a nearby table and headed back inside. His question was another example of the “polite racism” of the New South, much like the way Black people in Atlanta coexisted around Confederate soldier statues and venues containing the words plantation and Dixie. The expectation was that such things were harmless symbols of white heritage. They weren’t. They were relics of slavery and a secessionist society that stirred hurtful messages of racism. And now, a board member wanted to know where my family’s slave owners were from.