Remembering My Grandmother’s Black History- A Topic of Love

Jessie Lee Hall is My Black History. She is my grandmother and I affectionately call her Grams or Girlfriend. The matriarch of my family. Her recent passing, less than six months ago, at 92-years-beautiful, was a major moment for me. I remember when her mother passed after reaching 91 when I was in my teens. I also remember how diligent and tender Grams was with taking full care of her mother. This moment for me is about longevity, history and the power of love that is passed on to us. 

My grandmother was like the ‘fruit of the spirit’ that is mentioned in the Bible. These fruits are love, joy, peace, long suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness and temperance. Throughout my lifetime as her granddaughter I can say she showed me each one of these gestures of God. She loved God and her family more than anything else and I have learned from her to do the same. She is a history of love.

Grams grew up in the racist south and Love must have been with her along that journey. She told me plenty of stories from her experiences growing up as a Black girl and becoming a woman in Ft. Mill, South Carolina. I would always say to her, “how do you remember this stuff?” It amazed me. I have hard times remembering what happened in 10 years. She would go back 50 years and more. 

The inner strength of Grams is my favorite thing when I think of her. She was brave, daring and determined. On her way to school she was racially bullied by white kids. She remembered the words of hateful songs they made up – she even remembered the tune to the stupid songs. I know because she sang one to me. I remember some of it but I won’t give those words to my page, plus I will get mad. She fought back too. Always giving me the impression to fight for myself. And she did all this while walking across railroad tracks to get to school. She went through it though to get her education.

Her father (Daddy Ike) was her hero and he was amazing. Wish I could’ve met him. Everytime she spoke of him it was with pride and a lot of respect. Mostly everyone they knew loved and respected him. A clear case that fruit doesn’t fall far from its tree. He was a builder and a man of resource. He built the house my grandmother grew up in. He showed her the value of working hard and the value of working for yourself, especially during times when it was legal for basic freedoms to be taken away from you. But grandmother learned the lesson and as soon as she was of age, an innocent age in my eyes, she became a builder and resourceful in her own right.

At only twelve years old or so she was introduced to working for a living. It wasn’t too long before she started working overnight as a homegiver for Whites and the ‘elites’ -a politician, a sheriff and shop owners. Like many stories we hear of Black women in the South (early-mid 1900’s), they were the hired help for White people. With her occupation she learned to cook, clean, create, educate and protect. She laid the household foundation for these families. 

I believe she allowed herself to love these families. So an easy feat to love her own.

She put so much heart into each family she worked with. She never let me forget that she did it well. So well, in fact, families never wanted her to leave and didn’t know what to do when she did. These were the conditions for my grandmother. And there was not much choice in the matter at the time. But she conquered her forced conditions until she worked her way through it. She survived it. Then my mother would eventually come along. My mother would start her own line of history. And if it were not for the beauty of my mom I could be a different, less-guided, person today. 

In honor of my grandmother I’ll continue to remember the love of my black history.

–Much Love