From my lips, to your ears

As Lucinda Johnson waited in the wings of the National Press Club during her introduction to the packed audience she reflected on how she got here. He speech would touch on this path so she knew her speech would be important. She was the youngest African American female to be honored  in this historic venue. Every US President since Roosevelt had spoken here, as well as monarchs, prime ministers and members of Congress. Though only eighteen years old, she understood that in this day and age she's considered, by those in attendance, to be a “cultural trifecta”. As she ventured to the podium the thunderous applause continued unabated for quite some time. She tried to hold her head as high as possible as an attempt to subdue her fear of having to speak in front of such a large group of dignitaries. She simply took a deep breath, set her speech down, and spoke. 

“I am humbled and honored to be here today. I stand here today on my Momma’s shoulders (the audience applauded). It heard it said we don’t pick our family." she then paused for effect, before continuing, "ever since I was a young girl, (the audience laughed at the irony), I've had a lot of time to write because my Momma was always absent. I never knew my Father. My Momma was mentally ill and a heroin addict. She just died recently from AIDS (the audience sat silent in stunned belief). I didn’t know this wasn’t normal. Because of her disability, I was homeless a lot and ate from trash cans. My only escape my schoolwork. The book I wrote, “The Potters Field Project”, is a testament to my Momma in spite of her painful life. When Momma was still alive, I learned my grandfather was living in a care home six miles from the condemned apartment we were squatting in. I was 14 when I found out he existed. 

The very idea of having a Grandfather intrigued me enough to seek him out on my own. I found he was in a nursing home for the poor so I cobbled enough bus money together and found myself sitting in waiting area. Everywhere she looked, there were old people sitting in wheel chairs, and the smell of urine bit my nose like the smell of ammonia. The people I saw that day didn’t have a life like we know it, it was as if they were waiting to die. I was saddened by the neglect and fearful for my Granddaddy.

As I waited for the staff to wheel my grandfather out to the common area, I decided to talk to a woman who sat expressionless, facing the window, looking out in the small and unkempt patio area just beyond. I introduced myself to her, and in return received a blank expressionless stare. I took a piece of hard candy I had brought to give to my Grandpa and offered it to her instead. This small gesture woke her to my presence. The arrival of my grandfather interrupted us, and I gave her a hug and spent three hours that day with Grandpa. He was so happy to get a visit and we talked and talked.”

The following Saturday I came back, and as soon as I arrived the woman I had befriended the last time I was there, beamed a big smile at me.  I walked over and gave her another piece of candy which she took with excitement. It seemed I made a friend. We talked the whole time until my Grandpa came into the room. I had learned she use to be a “field nurse” during WWII in Africa. She told me a story of the time she saved a young man’s life, only to have the same man die in her arms a year later in the same hospital. She was also a writer like me, but of poetry. Her name was Bernice. Then a funny thing happened. When I arrived at the home, a week later, there was Bernice with another lady, to meet me. She, like Bernice, had a story to tell of her life. Bernice had befriended the elderly and frail woman during the week since my last visit. Mattie was alone and depressed (like an elephant in captivity separated from her baby). I cherish those days spent with my Grandpa, but what started with getting to know him turned into getting to know the other residents as well. There is almost an order to unintended consequences, for lack of a better term, in allowing me to absorb their life stories. I asked for Bernice’s help to work with others during the week. I gave her candy and paper to aid in her task. The change in Bernice was remarkable. She cried in happiness when I asked her to do this for me. It was our little project, and she had a purpose to her time.  For the first time in a long time she was no longer lonely. In turn, those she interviewed during the week were also coming to life again. From my lips, to your ears!

Management of the center took notice of the dramatic change in their charges. They began offering daily hair care for the patients, and by the fourth week of my visits, I could no longer smell the stench of urine. Where once I would have arrived to a neglect and apathy, I now found life inside those walls. This is the real story behind the book, the wholesale changes to improve the quality of life for future “Potters field residents”. 

The immediate impact of unforeseen results I witnessed with the residents also had an empowering effect on me. Standing on my Momma’s shoulders, I realized that in return for this quest to get to know my own family, I found the fascinating and compelling stories of others. In our own way we elevated our elders to a new level of respect and gratitude. Sure, they were poor at the end of their lives, but we all come into this world without a single possession. Allowing them an opportunity to share their stories provided them the means to pass their wisdom on to us. What greater gift could we give them than this (The center erupted in thunderous applause that turned into a standing ovation)?

If you read my book, you know the rest of the story. In all, over the two years until my Granddaddy died, I had collected 29 life stories. These are our elders and soon to be our ancestors.  We are their legacy, of their time on earth.  How far we have fallen to allow people to be erased in the sands of time? Fittingly, the first story in the book is of my granddaddy.

I stand here before you as a testament to his life. Without him, you would not be sitting here today to hear his words, his story. We cannot choose who will be our families, but we can choose to learn from them.  We can learn from their struggles and accomplishments in order to break the cycles we seem hopelessly caught in. Progress does not end with an individual’s life because life marches on. When my Grandpa died at that home, his bed was quickly filled with another story.  A story that has yet to be told! 

In closing, I have decided to go to college and earn a journalism degree in order to ensure that our heritage doesn't end up in "Potters field". I want to advocate involvement to ensure they are no longer warehoused.  Thank You!”

Lucinda stood there overwhelmed by the sustained ovation.  At the dinner party there was talk of Pulitzer’s and offers of colleges (of her choice, including Ivy League).  She was beginning to feel a little guilty about all of the big things about to come her way, but was determined to keep telling the stories that needed to be kept alive.  She was only eighteen and her story is still being written.