Chapter 28
TWENTY-EIGHT
LYNETTE
“Whoa, Mom, it’s fantastic!”
I could only nod while admiring the Zanitha Freeman memorial. Being there felt sacred. Surreal. “It’s her midwife’s bag…”
In the memorial’s cement walls were impressions of her possessions. I ran my fingers over the indentations, feeling warm sensations as I had when holding Queen Lazuli.
I closed my eyes and whispered appreciation for this phenomenal woman who’d walked unfathomable distances and stood up for her freedom.
If I never discovered our families’ connection, I’d be okay.
Somewhere, some place in time we’d been honored by the power and touch of Grandma Zinnie. That was sufficient.
We walked the grounds, read placards and information etched in walls outlining her life. I knew much of it from my research and Justus’ essay. Yet being in a place where Grandma Zinnie was made it fresh. Reverent.
“Mom, Dad and I are going to her house.”
I gave Justus a thumbs-up and sat on one of the benches facing the memorial walls highlighting Grandma Zinnie’s contributions to Los Angeles.
The park-like setting seemed incongruous with LA’s downtown district.
It was a delightful intrusion for a woman who’d claimed her space in a world that lacked inclusion.
How did I not know about her?
I’d majored in Early Childhood Education for my undergraduate degree, but I’d minored in Black Studies. I couldn’t recall Zinnie Freeman being a lecture subject or part of a discussion. Sadness pinged through me as if I’d been disloyal or negligent.
Sis, hush the foolishness and accept the universe’s gift.
I scanned those walls celebrating a woman who’d walked across the nation and spoken up for herself in a time of slavery, openly defying racism and establishing legal precedence.
Hands in prayer posture, I spoke simple, heartfelt words. “Thank you, Grandma Zinnie. I honor your courage.” Softness filling my soul, I eventually left to find Rodney and Justus.
A replica of the home Zanitha Freeman lived in after being emancipated was part of the memorial.
I appreciated the effort the city put into creating this honoring space.
There were items exclusively here not seen elsewhere.
A replica of the stick she’d used walking across country.
Her herb jars. Mortar. Pestle. The history lover in me thrilled at every artifact and display; but the framed photographs had my highest attention.
I loved moving from photograph to photograph, reading the captions and imagining life as it was. Each increased my knowledge, deepened my appreciation. An image of Grandma Zinnie and family on their front porch was grainy but beautiful. Relaxed. Candid.
I launched my phone camera and snapped several frames before moving closer to the caption. Left to right, the subjects were identified. I read each, pausing at the image of a woman I’d never previously seen.
I read her name. “Ella West.” My heartbeat took off. I leaned in, studied her face. Was she our alphabet ancestor? My excitement amplified until I saw the next frame. Ella sat with Grandma Zinnie and two boys.
“Nero and Matthew West.” They were identified as Ella’s sons. There was no mention of a daughter.
I swallowed disappointment and moved to a framed newspaper interview with one of Grandma Zinnie’s daughters, who mentioned her marrying a man named Buck.
We didn’t learn about their marriage until we were adults, but we always knew about their love. It was deep. Despite slavery. We lost him, but none of us will ever forget Papa Buck.
Touched by enduring love, I placed a hand on my heart before moving into the parlor, where I froze at the sight of a blue brooch. “Queen Lazuli?”
She rested on a velvet pedestal under protective glass. I rushed to her. Granny’s wasn’t the only one still in existence.
I thought about Granny’s Queen Lazuli holding Nana Nettie’s birthing sac. It was a precious remembrance. Same as my having a pair of my son’s baby shoes cast in bronze. More than a keepsake, they were something I could keep as life moved him away from me.
Nostalgia struck me as I tried to read the mounted plaque detailing Queen Lazuli’s significance. But my focus was suddenly glued to the picture of a young woman beside it.
She was statuesque, tall even seated. Deep brown skinned. Her heart-shaped face was beautiful. Defiant. I shivered with the familiarity of her unwavering gaze and stared at her likeness until my vision blurred with tears.
Wiping tears and steadying myself, I focused on the small girl atop her lap. The child’s smile was infectious. Carefree. Slowly, heart pounding, I read the caption underneath.
Alretha Grace with daughter, Nettie.
Speechless. Frozen. I shivered as a river swept through me. Forever seemingly passed before paralysis lessened, allowing me to rush to a nearby interactive kiosk. Fingers shaking, I typed “Alretha” in my phone’s search bar.
A copy of the same photograph popped up. Enlarging it, I was floored. My head was on a swivel going back and forth between mother and daughter in complete disbelief, telling myself my eyes were lying. “That is not Granny’s nose. Or her lips. Justus! Rodney!”
Being a spectacle at a public exhibit wasn’t on my life list. That didn’t keep me from hopping and squealing like I had no home-training.
“Mom, you okay?”
I pointed at the kiosk and waited for my son’s reaction as he rushed over.
“Alretha Grace…” He stared at me. “Is she our vowel queen?” I pointed at the caption and watched him read aloud. “…daughter, Nettie. No way!”
Rodney crowded behind us. “Are you serious?”
“With a capital S. Yes!” I zoomed the photo to capacity but was wounded by the letter R seared into Alretha’s face. “R for runaway.” I remembered that from my Black History readings.
My skin heated and I wanted to crush whoever branded her like a beast. But barbarism couldn’t lessen my interest or admiration for a woman who’d obviously defied her captors.
I’d found an ancestor. That joy could never be quenched.
Priceless!
Granny’s and Mama’s response to my texted photos summed it up.
As African-Americans, our genealogical history was too often filled with holes and inconsistencies.
Locating ancestors could be rare, frustrating, and daunting.
Even sources like a census didn’t always accurately reflect our existence, proving just another means of microscopic racism.
Finding evidence of our ancestors in Zanitha Freeman’s memorial was an immeasurable gift. I was forever grateful.
Thank you, Grandma Zinnie.
Whether I really saw her that day in church or on that street corner didn’t matter.
She set my journey in motion the moment I met Granny’s mannequin.
It wasn’t merely to uncover our family’s connection, but to find invaluable pieces of our foundation.
Nana Alretha. Nana Nettie. They weren’t missing links.
They were our vital, vibrant history. Keepers and tellers of who we were, and who we could be.
They were our queens. Powerful. Or painful. I wanted to know their stories.
I was enthralled, fascinated by them. I studied the picture of that young woman and her daughter, trying to imagine their lives.
Wondering about the circumstances that led to Nana Alretha’s face being branded yet loving her defiance.
I was hungry to excavate more information on her and Nana Nettie.
Doing so would require dedication and tenacity.
What if I change my grad degree to history?
We’d exhausted the kiosk reading its brief data on Alretha and Nettie Grace before leaving the memorial, only to resume our search via the internet when we returned home.
Finding limited, but precious, information had me open.
Truthfully, this entire quest left me rethinking some things.
Perhaps I could be an archivist, curator, or public historian.
“Mom, do I get to live with Dad?”
“How’d we go from researching Nana Alretha to that?” I smiled at Justus, seated between me and Rodney. We were relaxing in Rodney’s great room, making good use of our electronic devices to research lives from the past.
We knew from Granny that Nana Nettie’s last name was Amos, deduced she’d married, and were able to find her death records. But a birth certificate proved nonexistent. Finding one would’ve been incredible but, with the problematic recordkeeping from slavery, I doubted one existed.
At least I assume they were born enslaved. What if they were born free?
“We haven’t discussed it yet, Mom, so I’m just saying.”
“It’s been an eventful day, J. What if we talk about it later?”
I appreciated Rodney’s save but decided delaying for my sake was unfair. As was trying to dodge our agreement “It’s fine. Let’s talk. The floor’s yours, son.”
“I don’t have anything new to say except I’m gonna be a man soon and you said you can’t teach me how to be that and that Dad was a better candidate because he’s a good man.”
I looked at Rodney, thankful for our peaceful co-parenting. I hated when children suffered from absentee fathers or toxic relationships between parents and realized my persistent resistance could be damaging. “Real talk. You’re my baby, and I’m not ready. But… I’m willing.”
Our son did a happy dance. “You’re boss, Mom! Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, sweetie.”
“Should I do fifth grade in Austin then start middle school here? Or just move now?”
“The former sounds realistic, but let’s give your mother a chance to let it sink in.”
“Please. We’ll talk strategy after I cry in the bathroom and eat a whole cake.”
“Carrot cake with nuts, pineapple, raisins, and cream cheese frosting?”
“See! You get me.” I bumped fists with Rodney.
“You guys like each other. You should be together. Oh, and there’s a Thrive Time here.”
“Boy, go take your shower and put on your pajamas. And I get to choose tonight’s movie!” I was sick of Shrek version-to-infinity. I waited until Justus left to look at Rodney. “One more year with Mama Bear and then he can move to LA and start middle school here?”
“That’s fair.” His dimples flashed when he grinned. “Even if preschool through fifth gives you more than half his school years.”
“He’ll be with you sixth through his bachelor’s.”
“Sixth through twelfth. I’m making sure dude goes away to college.”
We chuckled, looking at each other.
“So… you called me a good man?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Lies, Lynette.”
“Fine. Yes. You’re a good man.”
“Takes a good woman to recognize that.”
“Thanks. Papa Buck must’ve been good to Grandma Zinnie.” I moved closer to Rodney so we could share my iPad screen. Silently, we reread the newspaper article together. My heart hurt knowing they’d lost him. How, I wasn’t sure, but I hoped to uncover more details.
I turned to Rodney while absentmindedly playing with one of his locs.
“What’s on your mind?” His voice rolled through me, low and slow.
I shook my head, hesitant to admit Grandma Zinnie’s loss of a man her daughter never forgot made me want to explore possibilities. “Just thinking about the loss of Papa Buck. And us.”
“Is that something you want to discuss?”
I nodded.
“Good. I’m for it. And us.”
Surprise filled me as he leaned in. The shock of it left me slightly stiff despite his kiss being sweet and familiar. A homecoming of sorts. Yet, it held a freshness that made me crave more.
He pulled away when I didn’t respond and refocused on the photo of Nana Alretha on my phone, clearly mistaking my shock. “Congrats on finding your ancestors. That’s a big-time win.”
I studied this man who was supportive, kind, objective, and pragmatic—who always showed up for Justus. Our romance had been founded on true friendship and I appreciated him.
I thought about the ways I’d lived with clenched fists, resisting assistance.
Paying even when it was Nichelle’s night to treat.
Not admitting my needs. Acting like being the middle child and the only of my siblings to have a child without being married somehow made me a goof-up.
Or their having fabulous careers caused mine to dim.
I was finished with foolishness. I’d achieved much in life. I was a good mother. A good daughter and sister. A damn good teacher. And a loyal friend. I was invaluable and ready to open my heart. And my hands.
Mirroring Rodney’s actions, I leaned into him and did what I’d wanted since he’d met us at the airport. I kissed him slowly, deeply, blessed to have created a beautiful child with such a wonderful human.