Recently, my Aunt Crystal, whom we lovingly call Aunt Chris, and her husband visited my family and me here in the Sevilla province of Spain. Aunt Chris is my mother’s sister, and her visit was more than just a family reunion—it was a bridge to my past, my identity, and so much more. My mother passed away when I was 17, back in 2004, leaving behind a life full of stories she rarely shared. As a curious young girl, I often wondered about her personal journey, but my mother was a private woman, leaving many questions unanswered.
Now, at 38 years old and a mother of three, I had an abundance of questions for Aunt Chris. Her visit was an opportunity to uncover the stories that had been hidden in the folds of my family’s history. One of the most compelling stories she shared was about how our maternal side of the family ended up in Florida—a journey that began with my maternal grandmother, Jannie Bell Grisham, who was born in 1919 in Stephen, Georgia.
Aunt Chris told me that although Granma Jannie Bell was only a baby at the time, she overheard the accounts of their escape as a child from her mother and our other aunts and uncles. My great-grandfather (Harry Grisham Sr.), along with his Cherokee Native American wife (Lula Mae Smith Grisham), my great-grandmother, made the daring decision to escape from a Georgia plantation in the early 1920s. Despite the Emancipation Proclamation being signed in 1865, many Black Americans did not experience true freedom until much later. My great-grandfather and great-grandmother stole away in the night, with my great-uncle Bud, then just a young boy, helping to push the family’s wagon through swampy trails to evade the vicious dogs that could have betrayed their escape.
Hearing this story filled me with both pride and sadness. Pride in the bravery and determination of my ancestors, and sadness for the unimaginable hardships they endured. It is humbling to know that if my great-great-grandfather Harry had not made the courageous decision to escape, I might not be here today, enjoying my life in Spain.
As I reflect on this, I imagine a future where my grandchildren tell their children about how our family’s legacy began in the swamps of Georgia, continued through the sands of Florida, and now flourishes on the cobblestone streets of Spain. It’s a story of survival, resilience, and the pursuit of freedom—a story that shapes who we are today.
It’s important to note that not all Black Americans are solely of African descent. Some of our ancestry traces back to the indigenous peoples of the United States, a heritage that is often overlooked but remains a vital part of our identity. My family’s story is a testament to the rich and complex tapestry of our history, one that we continue to honor and pass down through generations.