Naming my African American ancestors to keep them alive
Their presence brings strength to those still fighting and grieving.
In Gadsden, Alabama, in June 1963, civil rights activist Mary Hamilton stood silently in a courtroom, having been arrested for a nonviolent protest. She refused to answer the prosecutor’s questions until he called her “Miss Hamilton.” She was jailed and held in contempt of court. Eventually her case landed before the Supreme Court, which, in Hamilton v. Alabama, rendered a final decision that no court could address Black witnesses differently than it addressed White ones.
How and why you call someone’s name has always mattered deeply to Black people. Growing up, I dared not call any adults I knew by their first names alone. Before the weighty first names of the older Black women from my church and neighborhood—Sadie, Earnestine, Mildred, Frances, Vivian, Beulah, Johnnie Mae, Hattie, Virginia, and Etta—always came an honorific or a title. For people at church, we used Sister, Brother, Deacon, Elder, Mother, or Pastor. At home, we used Auntie, Uncle, Mr., or Mrs.
These titles were rooted not in formality but in intimacy. They were not about artifice but about respect, which we were taught was the basis of the relationship between children and adults. They were also about granting dignity in a country that historically afforded very little to African Americans.
