Día de los Muertos ~ All Saints Day

There is an African proverb that states: "ancestors never die till there is no one to call their names." I love this bit of wisdom because it so clearly articulates why we need to continue to call our ancestors' names: if we fail to do so, their memory and their legacy die. So much of our history hasn't been recorded, or has only been recorded from the perspective of the victors, and not the oppressed. Part of telling a fuller, more truthful American narrative depends on our calling the names of those lost to the historical record books. As a descendant of slaves, it is imperative for me to call the names of my ancestors, both known and unknown.

And this notion of "ancestor" is larger than the people to whom you are related. Ralph Ellison tells us that "some people are your relatives but others are your ancestors, and you choose the ones you want to have as ancestors. You create yourself out of those values." So I've been thinking about my ancestors, those shoulders that I stand upon, the people from whom I have created my own value system.

My ancestors include a pantheon of writers and poets. When scripture has failed to comfort me and when God has been silent in my life, I have often turned to the wisdom in a novel or a short story. And while they rest among the dead, I call the names of: James Baldwin, Flannery O'Connor, Octavia Butler, Carolyn Rodgers, Margaret Walker, Henry Dumas and Zora Neale Hurston.

My ancestors include those men and women of faith who, despite evidence not seen, continued to place their hope in both a temporal and eternal salvation. They believed, in spite of the rope, whip, and bayonet. They persevered, in spite of the chains, rapes, and lynchings. And while they rest among the dead, I call the names of: courageous slave mothers faced with horrific choices; men and women who chose death rather than life in bondage; those who remained to birth generations; and those whose courage and conviction shook the world when they refused to return violence with violence.

My ancestors include members of my family, both nuclear and extended. I remember loving hands that held me at birth and worn hands that cleaned floors to send me to college. These sets of tender hands combed my hair, wiped my tears, prepared me for womanhood, and held me in prayer. Among my ancestors were teachers who guided and encouraged me, and teachers whose low expectations gave me something to prove. This extended family included neighbors and a church community, the village who raised me and whose wisdom and presence I sorely miss. And while they rest among the dead, I call the names of: my mother and grandmother, and all the saints of my childhood village who are gone, but never forgotten.

Which names do you call so that the stories of your ancestors never die?

© Yolanda Pierce