Three little children ride happily in a truck singing to the radio. Their little legs barely dangle from the seat because they are so young, so innocent. One set of feet has Transformers sneakers. The other two sets have pink polish dazzling on their toes. An elderly man sits in the driver’s seat whistling to song and snapping his fingers. He looks over at the three children and smiles. Three sets of big brown eyes look at him and smile back. He fixes their seatbelt securing their safety for they are the pride of his life. Honk, Honk! “Hey there old man,” the man yells from the truck to what appears to be just a house. “Hey there,” the children also scream. The car continues on for a few minutes, and then suddenly comes to a stop in front of a green and white house. The children hop out the car and shoot into the house. The old man just laughs and shakes his head. For these little children were not excited because they had ice cream or candy. No, they were only excited to have simply gone for a ride around the block with their Papa.
It may seem silly. It may sound like a fairy-tale, but for me, it describes a typical afternoon during my childhood with my grandpa, cousin and little brother. Family is more than a word. It’s a feeling of utopia. It’s a vacation from the harsh realities of life. It’s sharing, caring and growing together. And in my family, there is definitely enough love to go around. I basically grew up spending summers and weekends with my grandparents. They and my parents took the initiative to introduce me to my great-grandparents and countless cousins. I knew people by their names and their nicknames. For this assignment, I talked to my mom, dad and my grandparents, but most of the information I have the privilege of already knowing.
WE ARE FAMILY
My parents, Robert and Loretta Williams Jr., celebrated 25 years of marriage this year. They went to the same high school, graduated in the same year, but did not start dating and barely knew each other until after they crossed the stage. As cliché as it sounds, one could not ask for better parents. They are supportive, encouraging, wise and an inspiration to me and my 20-year-old brother Brian. Whether it was a band competition, soccer meet, or scout meeting, my parents were always there wiping the sweat, shining the instruments or making the camp fire. Then again, my classmates have often said I have my own cheerleader section.
Sitting next to my parents at almost every extra curricular activity were my mother’s parents, Taft and Berniece Carter, my father’s mom, Qullie Mae Williams, my aunts Debra and Yolanda, my uncle Floyd and my cousin Danielle who will be 18 on May 12. From the time she was born, she would always reminded people of her birthday. However, I digress. These ten people are more than just aunts, uncles and grandpas. They are shopping mates, dance partners, study buddies and best friends. From birthdays, to 4th of July to Christmas, we celebrate everything together. Sometimes, outsiders wonder what the special event is. We simply say, “Oh it’s Sunday.”
REMEMBERING MY ROOTS
My obsession and love for family doesn’t fall from the tree. Both my mother and father come from huge families. Their grandparents have the largest number of sons and daughters. At family reunions, we represent more than half of the attendees. My mother’s father, Taft Carter Jr., 72, has four siblings: Doris, Lonnie, Eddie Jewel, and Uncle Mutt. Two of them were unfortunately murdered decades ago. My great-grandparents, Lenola and Taft Carter Sr. were married for 56 years before my great-grandfather died from prostate cancer in 1987. They happy couple raised their family in Wortham, Texas. Freestone County was their home. All of my great aunts and uncles graduated from a Freestone County high school, and to this day, they attend their high school reunions.
As the sisters and brother matured, they found their way to Dallas, Texas, an hour and half away from their home and made a new home in the Big ‘D.’ Papa met my grandmother one day when she was out on their front porch. She invited him to her senior prom, and he told her no.
I guess, she would take no for answer. Today, my grandma, Berniece Carter is 68 years old and she’s been married to my Papa for 43 years.
My great grandparents lived on Bonnie View Road across from Albert Sidney Johnston Elementary School. My mother remembers running around during recess and waving to her grandmother as the sweet lady gardened or fed the squirrels. Everyone called her Granny Dear. Even after one encounter, it was no surprise why she was given that name. My mother has 12 first cousins, one brother, and a sister. Each one has about four or five nicknames. One day, my mom’s cousin Bobcat (Terry) asked my mom what her “real” name was. This was not only funny because they are first cousins, but also because Bobcat goes to our church and we see him every Sunday.
It’s no wonder my parents get along so well because they came from very similar family structures. My father had only his mom, Qullie Mae, and his sister, Debra. Mae Mae, a nickname that I personally gave my grandmother when I was young, grew up in Karnack, Texas, a little town about two hours east of Dallas. She had four sisters and brothers, all of which are still alive. My great-grandparents were William and Jesse Alford.
Jesse died before I was born, but William, or Granddaddy as we called him, lived until the late 1990s. Unlike my mother’s family, some of my father’s family still remains in Karnack. Only two of the four siblings moved to Dallas to pursue better lives and better job opportunities. My father is the oldest grandchild in his family and inherited the burden of his grandfather’s 100-acre estate. He was perplexed that his 12 first cousins weren’t as excited as he was to treasure and honor their grandfather’s legacy, and is often given grief for his progressive mentality.
The other set of grandparents on my mother and father’s side are not involved in my life to the same extent as the previously mentioned family members. Divorce and absenteeism tore my father from his father. Robert Sr. currently lives in Dallas, Texas, merely 15 minutes from my permanent home. Yet, refuses to see his son. As a child, I remember spending nights at Mae Mae’s house and my grandfather would come over and say hi every once in a while. “I’ll send ya’ll some money or something,” he would always say. After a while, I just stopped believing him. My father had already lost hope. My mother’s other grandmother was a mean lady who always treated her family horribly. She didn’t even raise my grandma, but abandoned her own daughter in Karnack, Texas. My grandmother was raised by her own grandmother, so she understands the bond that is shared with grandparents and their grandchildren, something that has greatly affected my relationship to her and my Papa.
SHUT THE DOOR AND STAY OUT OF THE KITCHEN!
For most of my life, my mother’s family would converge back in Wortham, Texas every summer and have a family reunion. My father’s grandmother owned a lot of land and they still own it to this day. The original house is no longer there, but the family purchased a mobile home and it fits just as well. It was usually a hot summer’s day in August, but that didn’t stop the Carter family from spending time together. The women would usually be slaving away in the kitchen, making collards green and apple pies. Everyone would always want to sneak in to grab a piece of chicken or a whiff of air conditioning, but my Aunt Jeannie would always yell, “Shut the door and stay out of the kitchen!” No one would argue with her or any of the women in the family. They were always respected, loved and adored. Even my grandmother, who married into the Carters, was a favorite auntie who everyone visits. It was probably Granny Dear who set this trend. She was wise lady, who was a housekeeper for Mary Kay, and a treasure to every life she touched. The class she possessed carried on down to the next generations, including mine. No one ever wanted to disappoint Granny Dear.
It was about the same for my father’s family. The women were sometimes very mean, but always respected. No one would ever argue with them, especially my great Aunt Myrtle Jean. It was no different for the other women. My grandmother Mae Mae was the most soft-spoken out of all of her sisters. She doesn’t yell much or scream, just simply makes a requests. Often times, family members are relieved to see her because she’s the voice of reason and peace. It was her kind words that would often make everything better.
The men in both sides of my family are very strong, family-oriented males. Their family is the center of their world, but they know without the women, the family would probably turn to shreds. It is the women who keep the family going. It is the women who call and check on everyone. It is the women who organize Christmas dinners and family reunions. The men are there for support, and for authority when needed, but the women run the show. I come from a family of strong black, independent women who aren’t afraid to give their opinions or show how they feel. It is through this communication that my family was able to withstand the death of each great-grandparent, pillars in my family who will never be replaced. I honestly don’t think either side of my family has been able to bounce back from their deaths. I don’t know if we should.
YES I KNOW. . .I LOOK LIKE MY MOTHER
I am the oldest grandchild on my mother and father’s side. I am the bouncing bundle of joy that entered the world that cold, rainy day April 4, 1986. My great-grandmother's name is also Victoria, but I wasn't named after her. I have my own legacy to leave. I am constantly reminded of that day and its events, for it would foreshadow my family’s participation in my life. And for some odd reason, I seem to have taken the physical characteristics of both sides of my family, something that I thank God for every day.
My mother’s family has Native American and Caucasian roots. I asked about percentages, and my great aunt told me I was ¼ Native American, Cherokee to be exact. I’m not an anthropologist, but I’m also not stupid. As my grandfather gets older, he looks more and more Native American. Granny Dear had long, beautiful hair that she always kept braided. My mother has sandy brown hair and I have sandy brown hair with hints of gold highlights. When people ask me who did my highlights, I reply “Jesus.” Truth is, I don’t think anyone quite knows what percentage of my mother’s family is NOT African American. We just all have very pretty hair, pretty skin and age beautifully!! Maybe we don’t want to admit the fact that we are not fully African American because I would take us back to slavery times. To my knowledge, my Papa’s grandmother was half white, but people don’t talk about that often. Why? Because black is too beautiful! I am African-American. Do I feel less black just because I don’t hold the stereotypical physical traits? No, because I am an example of the fact that America is a melting pot or salad bowl, whichever you prefer.
For my family, it doesn’t matter if we come from Pocahontas or Harriet Tubman, we are black and we probably look like our mothers.
(PUSH) PRAY UNTIL SOMETHING HAPPENS
The hot dogs were grilled and the potato salad was marinating. It was time to eat. The Carter family gathered around the food and held hands. Then my Uncle Lonnie stated, “A family that prays together, stays together. Well, we all know, in this family that’s bullshit.” Everyone laughed at my uncle’s crude remark, not because it was true, but because it could not have been any more inaccurate. It is our strong Christian faith and belief in Jesus that has kept this family going. Our family is strong… very strong, but we are still human. It was only Jesus that helped us get through Granny Dear’s battle with brain cancer, my Aunt Jeannie’s battle with cancer of the esophagus, and my Aunt Doris DEFEAT of breast cancer. It was constant prayer that gave us strength as cancer rips through my family taking each pillar away year by year. In my father’s family, it is the church that sustained my cousin Rochelle when her brother and father died only weeks a part.
Family is a team effort. No one is great by themselves. It is together that we are able to achieve. Each person’s contribution is treasured and remembered no matter how small or insignificant it may be. The men, women and children are treated as equals. Everyone constantly is reminded that without one the others wouldn’t be able to survive. Sadly, sometimes death takes people from the family, but their life is not mourned, but celebrated for how they made the family better.
As I think about each of my families, I realize it is where the sacredness of marriage is honored that the family is maintained. I am much closer to my mother’s side of the family where the couples have been married for 20+ years. My dad’s father’s family didn’t even know my dad existed until recently. I rarely go around them and when I do, I am treated like an outsider. Even my dad’s other side that I interact with more doesn’t really like my mother. As a result, it’s rubbed off on the way I talk to them. It’s seems so simple, so minute, but marriage is a crucial part of family. It creates division and conflict among many parties. Today, I have an aunt who is 19 years old and I haven’t seen here in more than 10 years.
I AM NOW FREE TO MOVE AROUND THE COUNTRY
“Victoria, will you call your grandmother and ask her if ya’ll can spend the night,” my mother asked. “Never mind, Brian you call her, mom will have Victoria on the phone forever reminiscing about the day she was born.” Funny story, but it’s very true nonetheless. Around my grandparents’ house are pictures of all the children and grandchildren. My brother, cousin and I are my grandma’s jewels, her prized possessions. She flaunts us to all of her friends and church members, not to be arrogant, but because she’s so proud of what we’ve accomplished. When I began my last semester at the University of Oklahoma, my roommates inquired about my post-convocation plans. I told them I honestly wasn’t sure. A few weeks later, my mother called me and said, “Victoria, you won’t believe who all is coming to watch you graduate. You simply won’t believe it.” Tears came to my eyes as I pondered on my mother’s words. You see, it doesn’t matter if I graduate with distinction or in the bottom of my class.
At the end of the day, my family is proud of me not for what my resume dictates, but for the person I have become. They have taught me to be proud of who I am, where I come from and to always put family first. I am proud to be African American. I am proud to be a Carter. I am proud to bear the last name Williams. Words can not express how grateful I am to Jesus for blessing with a strong, united black family. When the world comes crashing down and I have no where to turn, it is my family that will always welcome me in with open arms. My parents and I often joke that they have the ability to go anywhere fast because my father works for an airline. As I begin to enter another stage in my life, I fear nothing. I am confident in the person I have become. I am confident in what I can do, and I know that if I ever need anything, my family is a phone call and a plane ride away.
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