I arrogantly sauntered into quarantine with an ambitious reading list and some daily workout aspirations, but my focus on the wrong damn thing. The more I tried to force it, the harder the lessons got. And it is in that space that this homage to Nelisa was born.
Since my grandmother’s passing, I have spent many days agonizing over how to honor her legacy. But after quarantining with my mother and her mother, I realized that our three generations are swimming in pathology. I am undoubtedly connected to all of these women by a bond that transcends blood and names. Our joy and pain binds us. I cannot shy away from the fact that I am all of theirs… I am their daughter.
Add on, that while attending a virtual workshop full of educators on topics around dismantling white supremacist culture and abolitionist teaching, I listened to Dr. Bettina Love recount her time in Ghana during the year of return. I’m paraphrasing, but she commented on the idea that we [Black people] spend so much time talking about who died for us, but there is someone in our bloodline, with our DNA, that lived so we could be here. I come from a long line of women who lived.
And just like that, it all made sense. That’s the burden that has been plaguing me. How can I pay respect to women who’ve sacrificed so much for me? How can I honor their legacies? How can I begin to repay them for risking it all, leaving everything familiar behind, and embarking on a brand new country? By shrinking myself to fit into my, or worse, your comfort zone? Hell no.
What started out as survival, quickly evolved into perseverance. I come from women who persevered. My grandmothers endured so that I might enjoy a fuller life. I don’t know about you, but I refuse to disappoint. In fact, I plan to liberate them, you, and me by sharing what lessons I have found hidden in their stories. This is their story, my story, our story.
Nelisa's Granddaughter 