Roots are as important as wings, in my humble opinion. This, from a lady who is genuinely, powerfully, and passionately a fan of wings.
Roots offer one a springboard. They give you something to push off from. They offer perspective and grounding. Roots nourish the soul. Roots anchor the heart. Roots tether our decisions and roots add depth to our experience.
From a young age, my younger brother and I were deeply curious about our ancestry, perhaps to a peculiar level. We wanted to know about the Native Americans who inhabited Northeast Ohio. We wanted to practice their language, fashion clothing, weapons, tools, and footwear in their style. We wanted to know the heroes of their culture and we read whatever we could about their way of life.
Not unlike so many Americans now, who seek stronger ties to their ancestral heritage, I suppose, we wanted to understand where "our people" came from, how they lived, and why they were gone from the landscape.
Such conversations in 2018 often invoke passionate claims about who was right and who was wrong in history and how things might now be set right. In the 1980's our goals were much simpler, I suppose. We weren't looking for restitution. Not one person to our left or our right had done wrong to our ancestors, we knew, quite logically. Not one person to our right or our left had contributed to the degradation of our ancestor's practices. Not one person alive had dissolved the cultural identity of our ancestors. We were our own people, as much as anyone in our generation. Those who had died, just as those who had inflicted pain, those who sought their own agenda over the preservation of life... they were long gone. My brother and I had as much a role in the historical preservation of our ancestor's culture as anyone. We could either choose to value the old ways, to practice and preserve our heritage, or we could cast it aside.
I suppose we saw things differently then, as we do now. Neither one of us seeks another to agree with us, really. Our minds are our own and so long as we are living a life that is true to our values, we are quite content. So much of life in 2018 is seeking acceptance or agreement, collusion with like-minded individuals. Life was different a few years back. We just were who we were, authentically. Not for an audience, for 'likes' or approval, but just because we chose to live and act in a manner that was consistent with the things we valued.
Roots.
My brother and I each had the privilege to study under a certain Middle School history teacher. This fiery, spiky-haired fellow fueled our interest in our heritage. He steered us towards texts, resources, and more. A teacher, genuinely filled with joy, when a student grew in understanding about how our nation landed where we were, and what exactly that meant to our ancestors--- both indigenous and immigrant. A good teacher can change a life. I wonder what the teachers are sharing now. Amid evacuation and lockdown drills. How could these miraculous individuals possibly find time for standardized tests, let alone igniting the love of learning that I was blessed to experience. In the span of a generation, our nation has become a very different thing.
Roots.
What roots will my children and their peers later reflect upon?
If you follow our instagram, you know that we've chosen to home school our children thus far. What that means for our household, isn't a absence of experiences outside the home, but a breadth of experiences within and without of the home. Our children are as frequently in the barn helping with chores, as they are strolling through museums and universities. I wonder what roots they will cling to or push against as they grow and mature.
I have one great grandfather who designed the boy and girl scout camps of the Cuyahoga Valley. I have another great grandfather who worked much of his life as a share cropper in West Virginia. While the two may seem quite different, I am equally thankful for heritage on both sides. Roots and wings, my dear. One seemingly slaved away on another man's land, for pennies on the dollar, and a rare chance to raise a family. The other designed trails and a haven for memories and character building that would span generations.
Roots and wings. It all depends upon our perspective, I suppose.
Some might insert the term "privilege" here. It's a pretty common word in 2018. People frequently chat about what comes one's way, based on the elements they cannot control. What I believe started as an exercise in awareness, has now become a bit of a social crutch. If you aren't rising above the privilege against you, or apologizing for the privilege afforded you, you aren't living as you should... or something. How can anyone possibly hope to rise above that?
Roots and wings, or lack thereof.
I had minor surgery when I was a junior in high school. My incision healed in a funny kind of way. Quite plainly, my physician told me (a freckle-faced, fair-skinned, brown-eyed teen) that I had "black blood". When I asked the surgeon to clarify, she informed me that the manner in which my skin was healing was a trait from African. You have black ancestry, she declared. Later, several doctors confirmed her statement.
Roots.
Most years, I attend a family reunion in West Virginia where Scottish tartans are sported with glee and water games cool the young children against the summer heat. The creek is always dredged for "crawdads" and there is always, always fried chicken to be found. My time in Scotland, in my twenties was brief, but the landscape and the people seemed like they could have easily found home in Northeast Ohio. The roll of the land, the rich fogginess of the morning, the longing for a pint to quenching the pallet after a grey sky day. They sang a familiar song.
Roots.
In my high school experience, I was surrounded by people of all different colors, backgrounds and religions. I had red neck and Jewish friends. I shared a lunch table with Indians and Italians. I laughed in study hall with Irish and Polish. I chatted on the bus with blacks and whites. I studied with Asians and Yugoslavians. My friends celebrated different milestones at their houses and ate different meals at their tables, and my life was made rich because of their authenticity. I had round friends and skinny friends, quiet friends and loud friends, smart friends and friends that struggled with academics. Artistic friends and athletic friends. Poor friends and wealthy friends. Perhaps I was naive, but I didn't value any one, not one single individual more than another based on the elements that they could not change. If they were kind, if they were honest, they were ok with me. Everyone shines brighter with a good sense of humor, of course, too.
Roots.
In late autumn, we sowed the first cover crops at the new house. Organic matter for the garden beds and cover crops to inoculate the soil. We started, quite literally, to set down roots.
As Spring knocks at our doorstep (at least every few days), I'm thankful for the brief window we had to prepare for the growing season ahead.
The soil doesn't care who tends it, what they look like, or where they come from. They soil simply needs to be tended, if the crops are to set root. Without roots, the plants would wash away with the rain. Without roots, the crops would not yield fruit or vegetable. Without roots, our bellies would go hungry. Roots offer anchor and support, a spring of life and nutrients, too. Just as the plant, just as the garden crops, we are in need of strong roots.
A week ago, Grandpa gave me a couple salvaged seed from the tomatoes that had grown on his parent's farm, in West Virginia. The share cropper's legacy continues!
A few seed have already germinated! The roots have begun to set! The next generation begins its own chapter!
Roots.
Roots offer one a springboard. They give you something to push off from. They offer perspective and grounding. Roots nourish the soul. Roots anchor the heart. Roots tether our decisions and roots add depth to our experience.
From a young age, my younger brother and I were deeply curious about our ancestry, perhaps to a peculiar level. We wanted to know about the Native Americans who inhabited Northeast Ohio. We wanted to practice their language, fashion clothing, weapons, tools, and footwear in their style. We wanted to know the heroes of their culture and we read whatever we could about their way of life.
Not unlike so many Americans now, who seek stronger ties to their ancestral heritage, I suppose, we wanted to understand where "our people" came from, how they lived, and why they were gone from the landscape.
Such conversations in 2018 often invoke passionate claims about who was right and who was wrong in history and how things might now be set right. In the 1980's our goals were much simpler, I suppose. We weren't looking for restitution. Not one person to our left or our right had done wrong to our ancestors, we knew, quite logically. Not one person to our right or our left had contributed to the degradation of our ancestor's practices. Not one person alive had dissolved the cultural identity of our ancestors. We were our own people, as much as anyone in our generation. Those who had died, just as those who had inflicted pain, those who sought their own agenda over the preservation of life... they were long gone. My brother and I had as much a role in the historical preservation of our ancestor's culture as anyone. We could either choose to value the old ways, to practice and preserve our heritage, or we could cast it aside.
I suppose we saw things differently then, as we do now. Neither one of us seeks another to agree with us, really. Our minds are our own and so long as we are living a life that is true to our values, we are quite content. So much of life in 2018 is seeking acceptance or agreement, collusion with like-minded individuals. Life was different a few years back. We just were who we were, authentically. Not for an audience, for 'likes' or approval, but just because we chose to live and act in a manner that was consistent with the things we valued.
Roots.
My brother and I each had the privilege to study under a certain Middle School history teacher. This fiery, spiky-haired fellow fueled our interest in our heritage. He steered us towards texts, resources, and more. A teacher, genuinely filled with joy, when a student grew in understanding about how our nation landed where we were, and what exactly that meant to our ancestors--- both indigenous and immigrant. A good teacher can change a life. I wonder what the teachers are sharing now. Amid evacuation and lockdown drills. How could these miraculous individuals possibly find time for standardized tests, let alone igniting the love of learning that I was blessed to experience. In the span of a generation, our nation has become a very different thing.
Roots.
What roots will my children and their peers later reflect upon?
If you follow our instagram, you know that we've chosen to home school our children thus far. What that means for our household, isn't a absence of experiences outside the home, but a breadth of experiences within and without of the home. Our children are as frequently in the barn helping with chores, as they are strolling through museums and universities. I wonder what roots they will cling to or push against as they grow and mature.
I have one great grandfather who designed the boy and girl scout camps of the Cuyahoga Valley. I have another great grandfather who worked much of his life as a share cropper in West Virginia. While the two may seem quite different, I am equally thankful for heritage on both sides. Roots and wings, my dear. One seemingly slaved away on another man's land, for pennies on the dollar, and a rare chance to raise a family. The other designed trails and a haven for memories and character building that would span generations.
Roots and wings. It all depends upon our perspective, I suppose.
Some might insert the term "privilege" here. It's a pretty common word in 2018. People frequently chat about what comes one's way, based on the elements they cannot control. What I believe started as an exercise in awareness, has now become a bit of a social crutch. If you aren't rising above the privilege against you, or apologizing for the privilege afforded you, you aren't living as you should... or something. How can anyone possibly hope to rise above that?
Roots and wings, or lack thereof.
I had minor surgery when I was a junior in high school. My incision healed in a funny kind of way. Quite plainly, my physician told me (a freckle-faced, fair-skinned, brown-eyed teen) that I had "black blood". When I asked the surgeon to clarify, she informed me that the manner in which my skin was healing was a trait from African. You have black ancestry, she declared. Later, several doctors confirmed her statement.
Roots.
Most years, I attend a family reunion in West Virginia where Scottish tartans are sported with glee and water games cool the young children against the summer heat. The creek is always dredged for "crawdads" and there is always, always fried chicken to be found. My time in Scotland, in my twenties was brief, but the landscape and the people seemed like they could have easily found home in Northeast Ohio. The roll of the land, the rich fogginess of the morning, the longing for a pint to quenching the pallet after a grey sky day. They sang a familiar song.
Roots.
In my high school experience, I was surrounded by people of all different colors, backgrounds and religions. I had red neck and Jewish friends. I shared a lunch table with Indians and Italians. I laughed in study hall with Irish and Polish. I chatted on the bus with blacks and whites. I studied with Asians and Yugoslavians. My friends celebrated different milestones at their houses and ate different meals at their tables, and my life was made rich because of their authenticity. I had round friends and skinny friends, quiet friends and loud friends, smart friends and friends that struggled with academics. Artistic friends and athletic friends. Poor friends and wealthy friends. Perhaps I was naive, but I didn't value any one, not one single individual more than another based on the elements that they could not change. If they were kind, if they were honest, they were ok with me. Everyone shines brighter with a good sense of humor, of course, too.
Roots.
In late autumn, we sowed the first cover crops at the new house. Organic matter for the garden beds and cover crops to inoculate the soil. We started, quite literally, to set down roots.
As Spring knocks at our doorstep (at least every few days), I'm thankful for the brief window we had to prepare for the growing season ahead.
The soil doesn't care who tends it, what they look like, or where they come from. They soil simply needs to be tended, if the crops are to set root. Without roots, the plants would wash away with the rain. Without roots, the crops would not yield fruit or vegetable. Without roots, our bellies would go hungry. Roots offer anchor and support, a spring of life and nutrients, too. Just as the plant, just as the garden crops, we are in need of strong roots.
A week ago, Grandpa gave me a couple salvaged seed from the tomatoes that had grown on his parent's farm, in West Virginia. The share cropper's legacy continues!
A few seed have already germinated! The roots have begun to set! The next generation begins its own chapter!
Roots.
