It is Valentines Day, exactly the middle of the shortest month of the year. It is also Black History Month. Every year at this time, I am called to remember my ancestors. Their sacrifices, their triumphs, their pain, their joy, their creativity, their self-destruction, their courage, their fears, their resilience. And I am grateful. I do not complain that it is a short month, or a cold month. For February gives me a chance to remember that I am here and that I matter.
One of the greatest gifts my father gave me, was before my first day of school. I always loved learning and "school" was one of my favorite games. So, when I go to go for real, I could have almost floated there. I could not imagine what else my father could give my for my first day of school. I think he asked me to sit down, but in my excitement, I kept getting up, playing with my bag, playing with the phone in his office. He said "son, when you go to school, some of the other kids may call you a name that you don't hear in this house. They might tell you that you are different because of who you come from. They might even try to make you feel bad about who you come from, but you should know that you come from strong people, who survived slavery, hunger, and loss of their homelands and lived on, found ways to be creative. So much of what you see today, has its origins with your people. You may think the telephone and telegraph are modern, White American inventions. But people in Africa have been using drums to communicate across miles for centuries. Africans brought agricultural knowledge with them when they came to America as slaves. Black people labored to build American cities. And have never stopped creating art and inventing things."
I am sure my dad said more, but I can't remember all that he told me, it was almost like he was reciting a book. But I do remember that he told me that being proud of who I came from also meant respecting other people, that in the end we all must live together and work together. I felt like a different child after that. I walked into the first day of school with so much pride, I was untouchable by the "n" word. I didn't know it at the time, but he gave me the gift of possibility. He inoculated me against all the messages of limitation I would come across.
It makes me think of Poke Salad. Something my father treasured as a delicacy when he found it growing wild in our yard. I remember eating it thinking it "was just greens." But it was more than that. I believe it was considered a healing plant, a spring tonic for my ancestors in the South. As an adult, I later learned that Poke is a very poisonous plant. I had seen them most of my life, but never connected them to the "special greens" I ate with my father. Because the young leaves and shoots of the plant, look different and are almost free from the toxins. I think the old folks judged it by color--if there was any red, it was not safe to eat. To see them, you have to really be paying close attention as they grow.
I think that I had a Poke Salad education about the history of Africans in America. My father told me some sad things as well as some good stories. But since I was young and green, so was the information. It was not toxic and became an enjoyable meal for my mind. It helped me approach cultural differences with a sense of openness and courage.
It is an interesting coincidence that this month is often associated with the heart symbol, because of Valentines Day. I like to think of it as Sankofa month. Sankofa is a West African symbol which sometimes resembles the heart symbol. Sankofa means looking back and learning from the past. It is in my heart that my father, my mother, my grandmothers, my aunts and uncles live. It is the powerful home of memories and continual healing.
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