slowly surely + xyz : a journey of (re)discovery

I AM. Rooting

By InspiredJourney


This moment in time of the trump ‘presidency’ is sad.

That he signed an executive order to stop taking children away from their parents, AFTER implementing policy to do just that, AFTER attempting Jedi mind tricks and altering the law that would basically funnel asylum seekers into what basically amounts to rounding them up like animals to be slaughtered is so skunkian tRumpian!

I, like never before, feel a near desperate need to expatriate. I’m not sure what my next steps will be, but out is a must.

On a lighter serious note, I had an emotional brain noodling conversation with a genealogist on Monday.

I came in contact with her after seeing a comment on a thread to which she’d responded on a post. That comment led me to have a look at her website, and that inspired me to respond to her.

While reading one of her blog posts, I was compelled to listen to one of her podcast episodes. In this episode, she made about not having loads of money to help people, but that if she could give them back their name, through genealogical search and connecting them with their roots, that was her intent. As far as I was moved, it seemed to be a life mission bestowed upon her.

My response to her comment was something along the lines of her ‘being and doing the work of a Saint’!

I meant this with my entire being.

Humble, in her response, she conveys that we’re all in it together.

I too spoke about a time I’d attempted to delve into searching my roots, but had come up short and discouraged. She responded with some encouraging words that it’s possible to unearth information, even in cases like mine; with relatively skant information.

The conversation ended with us ‘liking’ one another’s comments.

I thought that was the end of it.

But no.

At some point later, I spotted a message request waiting for my acceptance and response.

It was the genealogist.

We message.

She probes; asking a bit about the back story to my comment.

I spill my emotional guts with what has felt like my life story: I’ve never felt American; I’ve attempted working on organizing my family tree before, with no success.

We message a bit more and she offers to assist in ‘giving me my name back’.

I accept. I cry.

We chat a bit more, and I ask if it’s best to email. She agrees. I then ask how to best convey what information I have. She states a call is better, leaves her number and states I could call anytime.

Because she was scheduled to have a minor surgery the following day (Monday), and me being the person I am, I ask her to leave a great time to call.


There was no response to the message.

At this point, my default feeling of this going nowhere bubbled up. However, because I’m actively exercising creating the reality I want through thinking the best, I wait for an eventual response.

By Wednesday, I followed up in the chat and text to the number she’d given.


My second attempt seemingly showed the increased possibility that this was the end of our communication, and thus any connection to some semblance of a familial root.

I leave it.

Now one week later this Monday, I sent one final message to see if I’d get a response.


Ms. Genealogist responds that she’d been thinking of me, and had intention to resume our conversation and if I had time to speak at that moment.

I did.

Five minutes later we talk.

Ms. Genealogist was taking a break from prepping for the podcast episode she planned to record later in the day. The subject: Juneteenth Independence Day or Freedom Day, the American holiday that commemorates the announcement of the abolition of and more generally the emancipation of enslaved African Americans on June 19, 1865.

As the conversation continued, we eventually get to the heart of the matter. This is where I find myself blubbering all over the call. I’m talking doing my best to keep it together through near ugly cry and struggling to catch my breath between statements.

I share that having very little information and family spark a brewing fear that a search would yield nothing. And that this attempt would cement the thoughts I’ve carried throughout my life: my feeling is that of an orphaned child; that I’m twisting in the wind; I feel drawn to travel and unearth my home.

I wept and could hear it was contagious.

We collected ourselves, and she did her best to assure me we would find something.

Given the state of records and even sustained systemic structure to conveniently obstruct access to history related to Africans in this country, I have absolutely no illusions this search will produce a complete picture.

However, I remain optimistic we will find something.

So, I sent the few names and details I have and we have begun collecting hints.

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