These are the stories that need to be told, shared, and remembered...before our Elders pass, let's sit around the fire, hear and learn the vital knowledge of our history. The values, the morals, the lessons.
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Documenting the Oral Traditions
A Family Story by Raymond Tyrone Smith, Jr.
What I Learned From My Father: "Know your wrenches, son."
I grew up in West Covina. We weren’t rich or anything, but we weren’t poor either. My dad was a Mechanical Engineer, and my mom cleaned houses. Mostly, I saw him work on other people’s cars in our driveway. He was a big black man, and when I say big, I mean, he was like six-five with pecs bigger than Schwartzenegger! I think he was built that way because I never saw him work out.
Anyway, I used to stand around and watch him while he banged out dents, changed carburetors, pipes, spark plugs, and such. He’d say things to me like “hand me that flathead, son” or "pass me the Phillips" and such. At seven, I knew what a hammer was, but a crowfoot or a flare nut, I had no idea.
The best lesson he taught me was what all those tools meant, so one day, when he was under the car, he asked for a certain wrench to hand him. He was way under the car. He wanted a stubby wrench. I looked at his tools and handed him something wrong. I could feel his frustration and almost started to cry. He rolled from underneath the car, sat up, and said, " Sit down, Ray.”
He began:
This is a hammer. It represents justice. I knew what a hammer was, but I didn’t know it meant justice.
This is a screwdriver. Don’t let anyone screw you over. The Phillips has four grooves, that’s four times you’re screwed. The Flathead is your average idiot. Walk away. Do not waste your energy on that person.
These are my wrenches. There are so many of them, and they work to tighten and untighten certain nuts and bolts. These are your friends, your enemies, your co-workers, teachers, and even me and your mom. Study these carefully, because if you don’t know what wrench goes where, you’re screwed. He asked me if I had ever heard people say throw a wrench at it? No, I didn’t. He explained that it meant somebody is causing you a problem or trying to mess up your plans. “Know your wrenches, son.”
Dad went on this way for at least an hour and would test me every time he was out fixing a car. "Hand me justice, son," "Now, hand me that idiot!" I thought I would one day grow up to be a great mechanic, but the lessons he taught me throughout his life were life-changing for me. Instead, I became a counselor and social worker. My dad died at a young 44 years from prostate cancer. That was the last lesson he gave me. I’ll be 39 in May this year, and I started getting tested when I turned 30. Every couple of years, I test, and I pass this lesson on to every young male I counsel, but what I carry in my car are my Dad’s tools, and what I get to teach is the greatest lesson of all: “Know your wrenches”. Thanks, Dad. I love you, and I miss you.
A Family Story by Michael Mack
A KNOCK AT MIDDAY
In Luke 11: 5-8, Jesus tells a story about what real friendship is: having enough
compassion to be there for someone, be of service to them, and offer welcome – when
it’s inconvenient for you. Dr. King preached a famous sermon about this called “A Knock
At Midnight.”
My father, who was born Black and poor in the Jim Crow South and volunteered to
serve in World War II, virtually worshipped King. I remember Dad telling me, “The most
important man to ever live was Jesus Christ. The second is Dr. King.”
King’s voice was a familiar one in our house. Dad played records of his speeches on
any given day. But on April 4, 1968, King was dead, only thirty-nine years old, killed by a
White man.
My dad was just 44. He loved work, but took time off. There were riots in DC. The city
was on fire! Dad stayed around the house, wanted to make sure the family was safe.
But what was going on in his mind? He’d talked about Jim Crow a lot, “the dual system
of things” as he called it. He must have wrestled with many aspects of his life
experience – including the White grandfather he never met.
One day, around midday during this troubling time, there was a knock at the front door.
Being 6 years old, I’d placed phone books near the door, so I could step up on them and
look through the peephole. I knew that Dad, who was usually a welcoming person,
didn’t want to deal with anyone unnecessarily – not then.
“Who is it?” he whispered.
“Sonny,” I whispered in reply.
Sonny, “poor White trash” people said behind his back, a struggling door-to-door
salesman who peddled mostly junk. Dad bought things from him occasionally just to
help him out.
“Let him in,” Dad said to my surprise.
I opened the door. Sonny came into the living room with his big ol’ carrying case. And
this time, Dad didn’t ask me to leave the room. What did he want me to see?
Sonny spoke to him with tears in his eyes. “Mr. Mack… what happened to Dr. King… I
don’t know what to say…. just feel ashamed being White.”
“One bad apple don’t spoil the whole bunch, Sonny.”
“Well… you been real nice to me. I ain’t here to sell nothing. Came to give you
something.”
Sonny pulled out a beautiful, nicely framed, color photo of Dr. King, and gave it to my
dad. “For you and your family,” he said.
Dad and Sonny embraced as friends at an extremely inconvenient time for them both.
And I guess I saw what Dad wanted me to: the Gospel in action, a sermon lived.
A Family Story by Susan Downs
MY AUNT PAULETTE SAID...
May I share a motto to add to your thinking? Your Grandmother Laura had us recite it each day in her class, as well as the poem, “Myself.”
If there is beauty in your spirit,
there will be harmony and love in your home.
If there is harmony and love in your home,
there will be justice in the nation.
If there is justice in the nation, there will be PEACE IN THE WORLD."
~~~~
Please look up the poem, “Myself.”
Author, Edgar Albert Guest
SENT TO ME BY AUNT PAULETTE
This…I knew that both my grandparents were teachers.
~~~~
In this world, in these times, the best blessing you have is family and the stories they can tell you. The stories of the past, their good times, their struggles, and the beautiful history of the grandparents and great-grandparents who have gone before, or whom you never got a chance to meet.
This story is about my Aunt Paulette. I always looked to her with awe. She has a spirit that can move you. Maybe an old soul or someone I have met in another life cycle, and this is the thing that brings me around to my deepest thoughts about her.
I thought my family was made up only of Doctors, Engineers, Nurses, and Preachers, but in my later years, I found out that almost everyone I think about now was and is a teacher. Even to this day, I have had Aunts and other family members go back to school to complete a teaching or counseling degree. This is what we need. More stories of our family’s history so that we don’t forget their struggles and how they were able to navigate through 250 years of this experiment we are calling “Democracy”.
My parents have passed. I wish I had sat down more often to ask them questions about our family history, and this is where my Aunt Paulette enters. In the last few years, since I have been developing this website, I have been in communication with her. She has taken it upon herself to call me and give me bits and pieces of our family history and interesting stories, and it feels damn good. On the other end of that, I have not been so forthright in connecting more often. She told me in one conversation that this isn’t just a one-way communication. That I can call and reach out as well. I said I would, and I haven’t been living up to that.
I know and understand that right now our lives are busy, complicated, and confusing, but I want to encourage you to take some time to sit down with your Elders and hear and document their stories. George Orwell said, “Who controls the past, controls the future and who controls the present controls the past.” This is a quote from his novel “1984,” and if you’re not familiar with the book or haven’t read it, watch the movie. It should have been titled, “2024”! He was forty years too early, but otherwise very prophetic. Orwell wrote this dystopian novel in 1946, but it is so prevalent today. The totalitarian manipulation of history, wiping out years of truth and replacing it with falsehoods, or banning books, and the list goes on and on.
The last thing I’ll add here is that I have included the poem, “Myself,” in the poetry section on the home page of this website, and I welcome everyone to recite and remember the words of my grandmother and memorize them, along with Edgar Albert Guest’s, “Myself”.
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