What Did You Do Next? An Ancestral Fairytale
“Ancestors” I prayed “I come seeking guidance. For life is hard, and the world is a terrible place, full of wicked men. Things have never been worse. Please tell me what I should do next.”
My Ancestors burst into raucous laughter, all of them howling and snickering at my pain. When the cacophony of guffaws finally simmered down, my great, great Grandfather spoke, his voice deep and salty as the ocean.
“You do not know me, nor do you know my name, for the people who stole me from my home erased my identity. I was taken from my family, shoved like livestock into the hull of a ship, where most of us died. When I arrived in the Caribbean I was forced into a life of servitude.”
“What did you do next? I asked my Ancestor.
“I attempted escape, repeatedly. I was caught, brutally beaten, deprived of medical attention. Eventually I married, and although my son was born enslaved, he was freed as a child.”
“So things improved?” I asked my Ancestor.
“Improvement is relative” chastised my great Grandfather. “You can change laws but hearts remain hateful. Just because I was freed did not mean the world opened its arms to welcome me” he chided. “I was still treated like a piece of property, hated and feared by those who felt aggrieved by my ‘freedom.’”
“What did you do next?” I asked my Ancestor.
“I taught myself to read and write, for there were no schools for people like myself. I learned a trade” he said “and became a successful mason. My skill became known throughout the Caribbean, so much so I was able to hire a private tutor to teach my eight children literature and math and science and art.”
“So things got better then?” I asked my Ancestors.
“How do you define ‘better?’” bellowed my Grandfather. “I had education and abilities, however when you live in a land that’s been colonized, there is little use for them.”
“What did you do next?” I asked my Ancestor.
“I left sun and sand and saltwater behind” he said “for the island paradise where I was born lacked opportunity. I moved to the US, to New York City to Harlem, that I might make a better life for my family.”
“Is that when things got better?” I asked my Ancestor.
“You are truly dense, child” he replied, chortling at my naivety. “The place which called itself ‘The Land Of The Free’ considered me a prisoner of my own skin. Unable to face the truth about its past, they could not see me as human, much less as a master technician. Opportunities were sparse, and a lingering look at the wrong person could find you at the end of a noose. Still” my grandfather said “I was able to instill both skill and discipline in my children.”
“Did things get better then?” I asked, knowing full well the answer that was forthcoming. My Father spoke in muted tones.
“I was able to work” my father said “in places where I could play music on stage at night, in towns that would murder me were I found alone after dark. I would drive for miles to seek shelter, knowing a terse answer to southern sheriff might mean I’d never see your mother again. I volunteered to serve in the Army, and was not allowed to fight, because the common belief was still that negroes lacked courage. They deemed me suitable to perform for ‘actual’ soldiers. When I retuned from my service, a president granted many social programs to veterans: loans for education, housing, and business. For my melanin, I was deliberately excluded from these. Through all this” my Father said tersely “your Mother and I did the best we could to make a good life for you and your siblings.”
It was then I realized only my male Ancestors had spoken. “Were things any better for you, my Matriarchs?”
A chorus of sucked teeth scolded me. “Imagine everything the men went through” they said in chorus “but worse. We were raped, we were beaten, unspeakable indignities were heaped upon us” they sang “along with the responsibility of supporting our men and raising our children.”
My face burned with tears for the horrors my Ancestors had suffered. I felt shame daring to compare my plight to their own, fully aware that I stood atop the mountain of their collective sacrifice, benefitting from their examples. Humbled, I asked “Ancestors, for what reason did you suffer, and how did you find the strength to continue?”
“For you, my child” they responded in unison. “We did this for you.”
“So that you might make the path easier for those who come after, so that you might see yourself in our story, that you might make the day brighter for our future descendants. For you are a Future Ancestor, and one day after you have joined us, some foolish child caught up in their own nonsense will come to you seeking guidance, thinking somehow their world is ‘worse than ever.’”
“When that day arrives” my Ancestors sang “when they have lost hope and direction, may you know your history, so that be prepared to answer with pride, as we have today:
“What did you do next?”
