In Search of My Grandmother's Garden, I Found Homelands of Freedom

In honor of the ancestors my grandmother never knew and my beloved 'Momma' who sparked the journey toward finding proof of the superpowers in our roots.

A hummingbird came to me in my dreams. 

It was light blue with purple wings . It was undeniably gorgeous in its detailed simplicity.  Not fancy but elegant. Not pompous but royal nonetheless. It stopped calmly mid flight and slowly flew backwards towards me within arms reach for what felt like minutes but was more than likely seconds. The bird let me SEE it real good as its hum captivated my senses and placed me in complete awe of the experience I was having before flying off into the sun rayed heavens.

When I opened my eyes, I sat for a moment, trying to recall the familiarity and significance of the encounter. It felt dear to me, as if I had witnessed this before. As I rose from my bed and walked down the staircase into the living room, there it was. On the white double shelf mantle where photos of our loved ones are enshrined by living plants and sweet grass flowers, was the small ceramic yellow urn holding my grandmother’s ashes. The blue and purple hummingbird that had visited me in my dreams was right there;  the centered design looking me square in the eye.  

All of a sudden, I felt a sensation that took me back to a time and place of my youth. The smell of pine sol infused freshly mopped floors and perfectly pressed downy fresh clothes still warm from the steam iron overcame my senses. Visuals of cabinets full of food and after school snacks galore. A place that felt like love because the matriarch that resided there was love!  

The house at 2187 Toni St was a home. Rebecca Alexander Morgan made it so. She was my grandmother but we called her Momma, which was fitting because she was like a mother to all she encountered. For an only child who was also the 1st born grandchild in a family of strong willed women on my mother’s side; Momma poured into me until I was full. It truly felt like she was made just to love me. Her kindness and overprotective demeanor was a salve for all the childhood frustrations that I felt no one could understand but her. Now that I’m older, I realize that this is the gift of grand parenting.  They season you with the sweet while parents have no choice but to add the salt children find distasteful. That is until they live to taste how dreadful unsalted food is. My parents in their humanity were pretty great, I must say. But who can compare to a grandmother’s love? Seriously. 

Momma’s house was my heaven. It felt that sacred. I recall the warmth I felt every time I crossed the threshold of the entry. I can see the black wrought iron security door with the scroll work detail framing the front white door. I can see the beautifully manicured hostas that lined the front of the house. I can see her sitting in her tv room with a bag of popcorn, and a can of diet Pepsi watching her stories that had been recorded the week prior while she was at work. I can see her smile, feel her warm embrace and hear her voice that assured me everything would always be alright. 

This energy went with her when she relocated to South Florida in my late teens. Her champagne peach colored residence became my second home every spring break and summer I could get there. Even 1,100 miles away from our birthplace in Ohio, momma’s house made me feel like I had never left home. This is just additional proof SHE was the magic. And she took it everywhere she went. 

Momma always welcomed my friends in her space like they were her own kin and she had a strong belief in me that grew my confidence and intuition in my young adult years. She gave me the space to grow in my independence as a woman while always supporting my sensitive nature that led me to her fellowship of encouraging words frequently.    

I could talk to Momma about anything and she would listen. As an inquisitive child, I asked her all the questions and she would tell me the truths she could tell. If she didn’t know something, she said so from a place of humility and curiosity. She was always open to finding the answer and always felt certain I was a valuable source toward her enlightenment. When she told me that she never met her grandparents nor knew anything about them or her parents' families beyond her mother’s sisters, it shocked me. How could a grandmother so loving have been deprived of the love of her own grandmother? At this particular time, avenues for researching Black ancestry were opening up and I was now committed to the task of finding out any information I could find about the people my Momma came from. The potency of her love made it my mission to discover the source of such a well. 

For several years, the stream to my grandmother's loved ones ran dry. Any efforts I put forth led me to dead end after dead end. I began to think that our family’s narrative fell right in line with the dark horrors of slavery that his-story reminds us we come from every chance it gets. The story of broken hearts, broken backs, broken families and broken dreams. But my dreams were vivid, hopeful and filled with visions of freedom. Since a very young age, just like the hummingbird, my dreams allowed me to fly. So I decided to do what made me feel most free. I wrote. 

I began to write about the possibilities of who my family could be. I wrote stories that included characters that I imagined were my kin. Stories that seemed to flow out of me effortlessly which was a surprise even to me. What I was writing felt appointed in ways that affirmed my own capabilities as a creative.  I had wanted to write books since I can remember reading them and it was at this moment that I realized that maybe I really should. 

One afternoon, while scrolling on social media, I came across a writing residency announcement that was publicized on the page of a writer I greatly respect. Due to the revelatory experience I was having with my writing, I decided to apply.  I wrote a 20 page manuscript in 3 days in order to meet the application deadline. 

The following day after I submitted a story that my imaginary ancestors inspired me to write, a vital hint came across my ancestry account. Before this moment, I had searched diligently for even a hint of a hint and found nothing. This time everything was different. It was like the sea had been parted and the treasure that was buried below could now be excavated. That vital hint led to the discovery of the name, birthplace and birth date of my grandmother’s grandmother; Carrie Brooks (maiden name Woodson). There she was. Listed in the 1910 census with the names of momma’s mother, aunt and uncle. I can’t tell you how momentous this occasion felt. I could not wait to call momma and tell her what I had discovered. But something told me to dig even deeper. And then I struck gold. 

Not only did I find Carries mother and father but also their mothers and fathers. Then I found their mothers and fathers and then their mothers and fathers. What once was a brick wall to nowhere became a well paved road toward an ancestry of nobility. All of these names were written down on government documents dating all the way back to 1822 and my grandmother’s 3rd great grandparents were listed as free black men and women born in 1793 and 1794! Yes, I said FREE! 

In 1820, there were 1,771,656 Black Americans held in captivity in this country. Of that number, 233,524 were free. There were many more who were self-liberated. Black Americans have always played a major role in liberating ourselves. Many of us still don’t know how powerful we are. With the long standing existence of the most egregious form of chattel slavery in a so called land of the free, liberation has always been and remains to be a Black American’s most significant achievement.

What’s even more breathtaking in regards to my lineal discoveries is that three of the characters I had begun to bring to life in a story I was actively writing, fit the description of three of my ancestors all the way down to storyline, birth place, and even occupation! It’s like my words were the vessels for their rebirth.  The authentic love between a granddaughter and her grandmother became the spark that lit the way for my gift to affirm THE GIFTS we possessed and had been passed down to us from generations. 

Unfortunately, during this journey of ancestral discovery, my momma had begun to lose her memory. Although she seemed to be fine and still carried her warm and joyful spirit whenever we talked, she was gradually forgetting recent events and names of those she didn’t interact with on a regular basis. When I called my Momma to tell her the news, she was elated. The shroud that once lingered due to the lack of knowing from whence she came, was all at once lifted and replaced with an indescribable pride and honor. It was a freedom we both got to feel together; a freedom that felt familiar in its deliverance. The Morgan  (maiden name Alexander) children and grandchildren always had confidence about who we were and how we moved in the world. More importantly, we had a matriarch that set the standard. Little did we know, she was just following in the family footsteps. Her people were pioneers just like she was. She made a way for her family by loving us like no one else would. She made a way for her family because only SHE could. This is who SHE is. This is WHO I come from. 

I told her all of these power-filled insights,  praying that she was retaining all of its goodness. The moment we had been waiting for all this time felt a little less definite since I was not sure if she was really grasping all that I was flooding into her.  Momma’s condition worsened over time but she paid it no mind. She was resilient to the very end and left this earth on her own terms. Momma passed away earlier this year on Feb 19th, 2024. She had been surrounded by her loved ones the day she drifted off to heaven in her sleep.

I did not get accepted into the writing residency. Thankfully I can see that the perceived motivation of external validation for my writing was instead rooted in the important discovery of my familial heritage. It was rooted in the priceless self discovery of what made me and what my writing can be. 

Momma’s heavenly born day was this past Saturday on November 16th. She would have been 90 years old. I lit a candle for her as I continue to give thanks to the woman who helped raise me up as a woman and a writer.  On her birthday, my mother sent me a scripture that personifies OUR momma. It is 2 Corinthians 9:11; “You will be enriched in every way so that you can be generous on every occasion, and through us your generosity will result in thanksgiving to God”. Momma gave everyone who was fortunate to know and love her abundant endearment. She always had more than enough to give. I now read this scripture with new vision. ‘US’ represents not only her descendants but her ancestors as well. The hummingbird that came to me in my dreams, no doubt was a message from SHE! The exceptional family I once feared she would never know, was now surrounding her in jubilee.

How has writing led you to your own personal identity discoveries? Have you ever received signs and messages from loved ones through your writing? What role have dreams/spiritual encounters played in your development as a creative? Please feel free to share so we can journey together.