Sunday musings - May 30, 2021
Who is the “we”?
On this weekend in Tulsa, Oklahoma many are gathering for the 100th anniversary of the Tulsa Massacre of June 1921; gathering to celebrate the resilience of those who survived; to celebrate the emergence of history as it was and not as it is has been avoided; to celebrate those who are determined to use whatever means necessary to protect their community; to celebrate those who demand reparations in the symbolic form of money which is something the oppressors value; to affirm that the “we” includes all members of the community.
This is a weekend when in the United States we remember our ancestors. Memorial Day represents a day to remember those who served in the Armed Forces and especially those who died serving in the Armed Forces. It was originally known as Decoration Day. It did not become an official Federal holiday until 1971. I recall it as a day when the family would gather under the direction of Grandma Fannie at Sunrise Cemetery near Bristol, Oklahoma. Family would arrive with flowers to place at grave sites, tools to cut the grass, tools to clean and repair grave markers and headstones, and baskets of food which were spread out on the covered picnic area or on blankets. Thus, a meal could be shared with the “living and the dead”; the dead who lived on in the shared stories and, of course, in the DNA of all of the descendants. The extended family were those connected by blood, by marriage, formally or informally adopted, and whoever else showed up. This included many from various native tribes, some Caucasian and assorted mutts. All were welcomed although I do not recall anyone identifying as “negro” per se. Yet, it did include some whose family had been part of the Underground Railroad.
Many stories were shared although I now know that some were not passed on. The history of such events as the Tulsa Massacre was nof known, or, if known, not shared.
After moving from Chicago to Oklahoma my siblings and I attended a regional country school in Kellyville, Oklahoma. My experience at that school did not seem to match those of many of my peers. I recall lots of bullying of people of all races including this slight, non-athletic boy of dubious character who liked to read rather than play sports or engage in the Oklahoma country version of the dirty dozen. I also remember many racist words and threats directed about and to blacks and Native Americans. Although I have some pleasant memories of the school library and some of the teachers, my experience of male peers was one or constant fear and anxiety. I do not recall joining in racist comments, but I also do not recall ever being brave enough to “name” what was happening. I think I assumed reporting to the teachers or staff would result in harsh punishment from the other boys. In my memory the girls were kinder; especially a couple who rode the same school bus.
At my grandmother’s house as well as that of my Aunt Pleasie (full blooded Cherokee) and Uncle Harold it seemed clear that all who showed up were welcome including those who were not "right" because of shell shock; even those females who defied all social norms by being divorced.
Today I know that the so-called history of the United States was both redacted and altered to fit the needs of those who were sharing it. This was as true for the official history books used in school as well as for the oral history shared at framily gatherings and in the classrooms. Although I knew the history shared at home was limited I had no idea how limited. My own mother would deny being racist but always referred to “those people” who deserved rights and privileges “as long as they stayed on their side of the track.”
Today I know that repatriations begins with unearthing the stories which have been buried with bodies, including those who died during the Tulsa massacre, the lynching’s and the rest of the oppressive truth hidden beneath the delusional history which was told. Today I know that it is impossible to repay what has been lost although more than a token amount of momentary loss must be repaid. Today I know that my story is not complete and may never be completed but more of it can be unearthed and shared. Today I know that none of us can have a seat at the table as more than mannequins until the entirety of who we are - of the truth which was left out of the stories at the cemetery – is told in the bright light of today. Today I know the “we” includes all of each of us - all our history. We are all part of they “we”. We have to share our stories at the table of inclusivity; the inclusivity of ourselves and all our neighbors on both sides of the track.
Written May 30, 2021
Jimmy F Pickett
Coachpickett.org
Who is the “we”?
On this weekend in Tulsa, Oklahoma many are gathering for the 100th anniversary of the Tulsa Massacre of June 1921; gathering to celebrate the resilience of those who survived; to celebrate the emergence of history as it was and not as it is has been avoided; to celebrate those who are determined to use whatever means necessary to protect their community; to celebrate those who demand reparations in the symbolic form of money which is something the oppressors value; to affirm that the “we” includes all members of the community.
This is a weekend when in the United States we remember our ancestors. Memorial Day represents a day to remember those who served in the Armed Forces and especially those who died serving in the Armed Forces. It was originally known as Decoration Day. It did not become an official Federal holiday until 1971. I recall it as a day when the family would gather under the direction of Grandma Fannie at Sunrise Cemetery near Bristol, Oklahoma. Family would arrive with flowers to place at grave sites, tools to cut the grass, tools to clean and repair grave markers and headstones, and baskets of food which were spread out on the covered picnic area or on blankets. Thus, a meal could be shared with the “living and the dead”; the dead who lived on in the shared stories and, of course, in the DNA of all of the descendants. The extended family were those connected by blood, by marriage, formally or informally adopted, and whoever else showed up. This included many from various native tribes, some Caucasian and assorted mutts. All were welcomed although I do not recall anyone identifying as “negro” per se. Yet, it did include some whose family had been part of the Underground Railroad.
Many stories were shared although I now know that some were not passed on. The history of such events as the Tulsa Massacre was nof known, or, if known, not shared.
After moving from Chicago to Oklahoma my siblings and I attended a regional country school in Kellyville, Oklahoma. My experience at that school did not seem to match those of many of my peers. I recall lots of bullying of people of all races including this slight, non-athletic boy of dubious character who liked to read rather than play sports or engage in the Oklahoma country version of the dirty dozen. I also remember many racist words and threats directed about and to blacks and Native Americans. Although I have some pleasant memories of the school library and some of the teachers, my experience of male peers was one or constant fear and anxiety. I do not recall joining in racist comments, but I also do not recall ever being brave enough to “name” what was happening. I think I assumed reporting to the teachers or staff would result in harsh punishment from the other boys. In my memory the girls were kinder; especially a couple who rode the same school bus.
At my grandmother’s house as well as that of my Aunt Pleasie (full blooded Cherokee) and Uncle Harold it seemed clear that all who showed up were welcome including those who were not "right" because of shell shock; even those females who defied all social norms by being divorced.
Today I know that the so-called history of the United States was both redacted and altered to fit the needs of those who were sharing it. This was as true for the official history books used in school as well as for the oral history shared at framily gatherings and in the classrooms. Although I knew the history shared at home was limited I had no idea how limited. My own mother would deny being racist but always referred to “those people” who deserved rights and privileges “as long as they stayed on their side of the track.”
Today I know that repatriations begins with unearthing the stories which have been buried with bodies, including those who died during the Tulsa massacre, the lynching’s and the rest of the oppressive truth hidden beneath the delusional history which was told. Today I know that it is impossible to repay what has been lost although more than a token amount of momentary loss must be repaid. Today I know that my story is not complete and may never be completed but more of it can be unearthed and shared. Today I know that none of us can have a seat at the table as more than mannequins until the entirety of who we are - of the truth which was left out of the stories at the cemetery – is told in the bright light of today. Today I know the “we” includes all of each of us - all our history. We are all part of they “we”. We have to share our stories at the table of inclusivity; the inclusivity of ourselves and all our neighbors on both sides of the track.
Written May 30, 2021
Jimmy F Pickett
Coachpickett.org
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