≡ Memories ≡

A generation ago I was born. Raised in Harlem, I have vivid memories of my childhood. My grandmotrher, who ran a rooming house at 48 East 129th street, loved plants. Forsaken seeds falling on fertile soil sprung up like a shrub border.The plants my grandmother nurtured were children that nobody wanted; they were the abandoned offspring of her own children. Growing up like a shrub meant that, you became a hedge around stuff, the first thing people see when they look.

My grandmother died in the 60's right there in the rooming house she ran. Death is the predicament of life; it is a stark reality when it comes. Neighbors came creating a slideshow. Like intruding snoopers, they began knocking on the doors of our privacy, looking to satisfy their curiosity. But, they could not get pass the shrubs. We were all there; including the last of my generation, a cousin born in her house to a single mother. He got to keep her name.

Seemingly trivial things like names, have roots in deep emotional experiences; getting to keep ones' grandmothers' name helped him to appreciate the scripts 
of those who had gone before to nurture us. It hit me with a fresh and almost unbelievable awakening. He was bestowed "shrub license" to reverse the supposed shame of his conception. Given a 'hedge plants' chance he used our
grandmothers name to bring honor to the memory and sacrifice she made. As a
writer, he wrote the stories down. The honor lasts, the shame dies.