At around 10:00 Sunday morning, I'm sitting on the porch half-broiling in Milwaukee's special brand of humidity while relaxing away the time before we have to pack up and head back to church for volunteering at the church picnic.
In between wiping beads of sweat from my upper lip, my thoughts drift back to seven days before when we were tackling that last pain-staking two hours from St. Louis to Joplin and then later, Pierce City. I can still feel the silent fatigue hanging over my husband, my daughter and me as we drove those 200 hundred miles.
We finally arrived, settled in, had dinner and then worried whether that we'd have to take cover from an impending tornado as National Weather Service suggested. But life in Joplin went on, as it was going on in Pierce City. In fact, the sun was shining. So we went.
Back in 2012, I serendipitously found Editor of the Monnet Times, Murray Bishoff on the internet. He had researched our family history and we connected. Through him, I discovered family roots dating back to 1795, including a lynching and then subsequent banishment of the black community from that town.
Years since passed since our initial contact, and each year, the pull toward walking in my forebears steps grew stronger. I wanted my now teen aged daughter to know, feel and touch her maternal roots. I wanted her to know Milla Godley, her fourth great-grandmother who was born in 1795.
We drove around in Pierce City for a while and then soon connected with Murray and his wife. Long, familiar hugs bridged the distance of time and miles and I felt like I was in a familiar, but unfamiliar place.
Murray walked us over to an ancient building. This is where it started.
I'm still processing what I was feeling: I'm a history buff who likes old things, but This is where it started. Someone with my DNA was unjustly held there and then killed for a crime of which he was innocent.
Murray then lead us to a beautiful pastoral patch of land. In Milwaukee, it'd be a green space -- someplace a local band would play over the lunch hour or at dusk during summer. In fact, we'd driven by the place earlier.
Turns out it used to be the home of a my 2nd great grandfather French Godley who was also killed that night, and behind his home, that of his stepson Pete Hampton - also killed. And also the neighborhood of other black residents who were run out of town that same night.
We then moved on to a cemetery where there was a monument to my three ancestors who were killed. It was personally sponsored by Murray and reads May Community Be Restored. Next to that was a marker for Milla -- my earliest matriarchal ancestor born in 1795.
My daughter looked over my shoulder as I reached out to touch it. There was a catch in my throat as I thought about the generations standing at this place in that moment: Milla's, mine and my daughter's.
Then I imagined that final scene from the movie Coco when the spirits hover over the living who remember them during Dia de los Muertos...maybe my mom, her mom, my great grandfather and Milla were gently smiling on us.
It was dark by then, and Murray led us to one final stretch of land straddled by two neighborhoods. This is where your ancestor's Henry's farm was. He had 40 acres here. My daughter had been silent up until then, but she blurted out All of this?! Murray explained that He bought this land.
Meanwhile, I thought Funny, my ancestor knew government wasn't going to make good on its Reconstruction reparation promise of 40 Acres and a Mule, so he went out and did it on his own.
I suppose Henry was long gone in the banishment of black folks by the time the tornado swept through Pierce City, sweeping away his abandon barn and livestock. But the land still stands and whispers about what once was.
The next stop was downtown Pierce City where a small group was waiting -- all on the spot where the lynching happened. We exchanged introductions, then lit candles as Murray told the story of Gisela, the woman who had been murdered; of Will Godley, my ancestor wrongly accused of her murder; and then of French Godley and Pete Hampton. And how the black folks fled for their lives in the cornfields after all was said and done.
Some of whom eventually made it to Milwaukee.
Sometime during the night, my husband asked But who tells the story when Murray isn't here anymore?
We do, and we start now.
Our daughter does and she starts now, and if she has kids, they'll tell the story.
That's who.
The sight of a car pulling up in front of the house jolts me back from the past week's memory as I realize that it's still Sunday now and time is ticking down till we have to be back at church to volunteer for the church picnic.
A sixtyish, fit, gray-haired man ascends our front yard steps and says Hi.
I respond in kind wondering what he's selling or whose house he's looking for.
My name is Tom, he continues, my sisters and I are having a mini-family reunion; and um, we used to live here a long time ago.
I interrupt and introduce myself. Why don't you have a look around.
This is home.
* * * * * * * * *
In between wiping beads of sweat from my upper lip, my thoughts drift back to seven days before when we were tackling that last pain-staking two hours from St. Louis to Joplin and then later, Pierce City. I can still feel the silent fatigue hanging over my husband, my daughter and me as we drove those 200 hundred miles.
We finally arrived, settled in, had dinner and then worried whether that we'd have to take cover from an impending tornado as National Weather Service suggested. But life in Joplin went on, as it was going on in Pierce City. In fact, the sun was shining. So we went.
Back in 2012, I serendipitously found Editor of the Monnet Times, Murray Bishoff on the internet. He had researched our family history and we connected. Through him, I discovered family roots dating back to 1795, including a lynching and then subsequent banishment of the black community from that town.
Years since passed since our initial contact, and each year, the pull toward walking in my forebears steps grew stronger. I wanted my now teen aged daughter to know, feel and touch her maternal roots. I wanted her to know Milla Godley, her fourth great-grandmother who was born in 1795.
* * * * * * * * *
We drove around in Pierce City for a while and then soon connected with Murray and his wife. Long, familiar hugs bridged the distance of time and miles and I felt like I was in a familiar, but unfamiliar place.
Murray walked us over to an ancient building. This is where it started.
I'm still processing what I was feeling: I'm a history buff who likes old things, but This is where it started. Someone with my DNA was unjustly held there and then killed for a crime of which he was innocent.
 |
| The jail where Will Godley was held, then dragged through the town and then lynched. Will was my 3rd or 4th cousin. |
 |
| What it is now and what it was then. Funny how land holds so many secrets. |
We then moved on to a cemetery where there was a monument to my three ancestors who were killed. It was personally sponsored by Murray and reads May Community Be Restored. Next to that was a marker for Milla -- my earliest matriarchal ancestor born in 1795.
My daughter looked over my shoulder as I reached out to touch it. There was a catch in my throat as I thought about the generations standing at this place in that moment: Milla's, mine and my daughter's.
Then I imagined that final scene from the movie Coco when the spirits hover over the living who remember them during Dia de los Muertos...maybe my mom, her mom, my great grandfather and Milla were gently smiling on us.
 |
| Milla Godley: born 1795 as an enslaved person, married to Joseph also enslaved, then broken up because they were owned by different masters when one of them moved, and somehow someway, found each other after emancipation and built a community. |
Meanwhile, I thought Funny, my ancestor knew government wasn't going to make good on its Reconstruction reparation promise of 40 Acres and a Mule, so he went out and did it on his own.
I suppose Henry was long gone in the banishment of black folks by the time the tornado swept through Pierce City, sweeping away his abandon barn and livestock. But the land still stands and whispers about what once was.
The next stop was downtown Pierce City where a small group was waiting -- all on the spot where the lynching happened. We exchanged introductions, then lit candles as Murray told the story of Gisela, the woman who had been murdered; of Will Godley, my ancestor wrongly accused of her murder; and then of French Godley and Pete Hampton. And how the black folks fled for their lives in the cornfields after all was said and done.
Some of whom eventually made it to Milwaukee.
Sometime during the night, my husband asked But who tells the story when Murray isn't here anymore?
We do, and we start now.
Our daughter does and she starts now, and if she has kids, they'll tell the story.
That's who.
* * * * * * * * *
The sight of a car pulling up in front of the house jolts me back from the past week's memory as I realize that it's still Sunday now and time is ticking down till we have to be back at church to volunteer for the church picnic.
A sixtyish, fit, gray-haired man ascends our front yard steps and says Hi.
I respond in kind wondering what he's selling or whose house he's looking for.
My name is Tom, he continues, my sisters and I are having a mini-family reunion; and um, we used to live here a long time ago.
I interrupt and introduce myself. Why don't you have a look around.
This is home.
 |
| Murray and me. He's pretty much family. |
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