Follow one family’s incredible journey from a Georgia plantation to a Mississippi city, tracing their surprising ancestral roots.
Part 3 in our look at one family’s ancestral journey.
See more:
Surname Surprise Unveils Hidden Family History
For months my brother Michael’s texted genealogical report stayed with me. He shared a lot, but a few things stood out.
One, our surname is English.
Two, the Stallings came to the colony – not yet the United States — in the 1600s.
Then this:
“The name Stallings came from a plantation owner from Georgia who impregnated our3xs great grandmother.” Stallings then moved with my enslaved ancestor to a city in Mississippi after that.
I asked him if there was any chance that it was consensual. His basic response was, “Naw, bruh.” I could almost hear the chuckles as he texted the reply.
I wasn’t being naïve. I needed to ask the obvious question despite the unlikelihood. People who believed in the southern framing of slavery as a kinder institution than portrayed in history would appreciate that kind of peculiar leeway.
For over forty years — with almost all of them being around African Americans who adopted African names – I never considered a name change. Even when poets who were my contemporaries chose pseudonyms, I chose a slight variation of my given name, M.K. Stallings.
That day and those texts had me feeling like Pharrell on Finding Your Roots. I was brimming with Malikenergy. I soon arrived at an almost inevitable conclusion – I have to leave Stallings behind.
How does one do that, exactly? I mean how do I leave behind a family name that is associated with my brothers and the parents who raised me? More importantly, how do I disassociate from a name that has already been passed down to my children and taken by my wife.
And now, with all this Malikenergy, this strong desire to leave the Stallings ancestral plantation, how do I resolve this issue with the family I started?
Some wouldn’t think of this as an issue at all. I am the patriarch so they must follow me, some might contend. The challenge for me is that I do not want to perpetuate patriarchy, although that is clearly my role. However, in my role, I do not dominate, nor do I allow domination – with exception of my three year old daughter.
The questions about Michael’s research began to crystallize. I needed more details. I needed to know what he discovered – the names and dates. If I am willing to alter my identity and become a catalyst for more changes in the family I made, I need to be sure about the facts. I needed to see Michael’s family tree, his research. He used Ancestry.com. I figured he could share it with me if I opened an account.
I planned to contact him about my thoughts on changing my surname to get his opinion. I also wanted to see his notes and family tree, but I was tied up with a massive research project. That’s the funny thing about time – it takes a high level of privilege to have any mastery over it.
Shortly before I was going to reach out to Michael, our mother called me crying into her phone. She told me that she was speaking with him and then he started mumbling. He then ended the call. Now the text I planned to send about the family tree became a wellness check. Since he was hours and states away, I asked him to call back via text, Mom.
No response.
Sometimes Michael needed to disconnect from the world, and I was willing to do that except that night. I called him. No response.
I told our brother, Tim, to reach out, too, as well as our dad. Still, no response.
I contacted his local police to do a wellness check, and they did. But it was like the worst, most inept version of a wellness check. They knocked on his door, and was like, he did not answer. I asked them to keep trying. Again, no response.
The only response we received about Michael came from another police officer the next day announcing the worst possible news.
The pain was a dull blade piercing my abdomen. I accepted it. Allowed it to remain there. I needed the sensation to make it real. It hurt me to know he was gone. Yet, it was not only my brother who died but our family historian died. Our griot died.
What happens to identity once memory is lost? In the immediate aftermath, I went to my brother’s home to begin making sense of things. While I was there, I accessed his computer and shared the family tree with myself from his account.
My first entry to Michael’s family tree was his death date.
#ancestry #genealogy #familyhistory
