We Built It

Imagine an online community where you can research and recognize your ancestors…download, print and share historic documents and photos… load family trees… collaborate and get help in real-time from other researchers…. a POWERHOUSE of genealogical discovery specifically focused on African Americans.

We are proud to announce that Our Black Ancestry is making that dream come true. We made a MAJOR step forward recently by reformatting our website into a more robust space that offers benefits to both the general public and a membership community.

For members, we will function like other genealogical societies do. Members create a personal profile that is accessible only to other members. Once your profile is complete, you can access surname and DNA searches, communicate with other members, participate in member forums, receive updates on resource links and discount offers on products and services. One of the greatest benefits is PRIVACY – for all of your communication and anything you share.

Membership costs only $25 per year! To join, visit the Our Black Ancestry website and CLICK the SUBSCRIBE button at the bottom of the home page.

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Who’s in charge?

Professional portraitSharon Morgan is the founder of Our Black Ancestry. She is a genealogist, writer and marketing communications professional whose ancestors were enslaved in Mississippi and Alabama. Her 30 years of research led her to create Our Black Ancestry in 2007 to help others trace their family histories. It also led her to co-author a book: Gather at the Table: The Healing Journey of a Daughter of Slavery and a Son of the Slave Trade, which was published in 2012 by Beacon Press.

 

ROMAN DianaDiana Roman is president of the Our Black Ancestry Foundation. She is a marketing and international business development professional who is a descendant of the Hairston family, one of the largest slave owning families in American history. Their story is told in the book The Hairstons: An American Family in Black and White. Historical family documents are presented on the website HairstonGenealogy.com, which is sponsored by Our Black Ancestry.

 

 

BACK ROADS

2 September 2014

Bettie WARFE/GAVIN

Every year, finances permitting, I head South for genealogical research. I pack up my Jeep with clothes, food, and emergency supplies. My handy GPS leads the way. It knows the back roads far better than I.

In the cache stored in the boot, I have a battery charger, folding shovel, collapsible bucket, and knee-high fireman’s boots. In the glove box, I store a hunter’s knife and ID that shows I own my vehicle and the contents therein. You never know what exigencies might exist on the road less traveled!

Rather than driving interstate highways, I stick to two-lane roads so I can take in the scenery and get a picture of what life might have been like in the communities in which my ancestors lived more than a hundred years before I was born.

This year, I was able to spend two weeks exploring the back roads of ancestral home places in rural Mississippi and Alabama. I hit courthouses and communities in Macon, Mississippi and Lowndes County, Alabama, with many detours along the way. It’s not like I haven’t been to these places before, but I am forever aware that there is always more to see… and feel…. and appreciate. This time, I registered more than 3,000 miles in my quest.

Along the way, there are few stop lights or petrol stations. The landscape is dominated by expansive fields of cotton and corn, interspersed with grazing cows. If my Jeep were to break down, who knows what the consequences might be? An out-of-the-blue summer storm rocked my car to the hinges. I wasn’t sure whether to abandon ship or keep on truckin’.

The entire scene is redolent of a life that an urban woman like me finds hard to comprehend. There are countless churches and, every now and then, I pass a sign reminding me that Jesus is love and hell is a just reward.

I returned from my adventure this year with a box of copies… documents that prove my heritage as a “daughter of slavery” – part of the subtitle of the book I wrote about healing from the egregious legacy from which 90 percent of African Americans descend.

As I culled documents in the Macon courthouse and at the archives in Jackson, my heart was rended by the visceral realization of the exigencies of the lives my ancestors lived.

I found a MS Supreme Court case where my ancestress, Bettie WARFE/GAVIN, was accused of operating a “bawdy house” and sentenced to jail. There was another case that disputed the land of Seborn GAVIN, who bought, after Emancipation, the plantation upon which he was enslaved by his very own father.

In one testimony (before the Mississippi Supreme Court), Bettie WARFE/GAVIN admitted that she didn’t even know how old she was:

Q         About how old are you Aunt Bettie?

A         I don’t know sir, how old I am. I was raised up by a white lady and was sold over here from Virginia. I don’t know how old I am, too old to be here.

She also explained:

Q         You were convicted of getting children by Bob Gavin?

A         Yes sir; he was my master. He bought me from his uncle and I couldn’t help it.

Q         Have you ever been convicted of any unlawful cohabitation?

A         I was convicted by getting children by my master.

My takeaway from  this  testimony, and many other documents I found, is that slavery was such an incredibly abominable institution, embraced by an entire nation, it astounds my mind. I am afraid of the possibility that we may never succeed in healing from its effects.

With these observations in mind, is it any wonder that young black boys like Trayvon Martin and  Michael Brown lay dead, victims of a “system” that views “children” like me as less than human?

The Fear of No Return

15 November 2013

GUEST BLOG by Harold Lee Rush

 
Slave - Chains

 

When I read Sharon’s blog on 12 Years a Slave, it brought forth a rush of emotion that forced me to consider where I stand as a Black man today… in 2013…. When America is supposed to be a more enlightened and just society. My thoughts led me to a place where I can easily comprehend the path we have traveled; one that perpetually puts me in my “place” as a “boy” instead of a “man” – as “chained” rather than “free.”

Given those parameters, I have a special take on the movie (a depiction of the past) that (in current reality) could easily be ME. Solomon Northup, a “free man” became enslaved and endured soul wrenching experiences that left him traumatized.

It strikes me to my soul that the very same experience could easily happen to me – TODAY.

As with Northup, I could be innocently walking down the street, be picked up and cast into a system where my name is taken, I am held in chains, shipped far from home, forced to work, and never know when I might again be free. This could  happen (and often does).

I hope you will recognize by now that I’m speaking of the American criminal “just-us” system – one which relentlessly inflicts the onus of involuntary servitude – meted out to many Black men (especially) who may be “pronounced guilty” — based upon a conviction that bears little (if any) proof.

Just as Black men (and some women) were kidnapped and sold into slavery during Solomon Northrup’s time, Black people continue to experience a frighteningly similar fate, under a process that is euphemistically “colored” with the rule of law.

Modern day law enforcement protocol has its roots in the slave catchers and bounty hunters of the past who would swoop into town and grab any Black man moving. If you could not prove you were a free man, you were doomed. How did one prove they were free? As we saw in the film, Solomon Northup was stripped of his clothing and personal belongings. How in the world could he, when demanded, produce “papers” to prove his status? Even if he did, I can easily see the jailer tearing them to shreds.

Today, police can stop any and every one and inquire about their status. Mostly, they demand “Do you have any wants or warrants.” (Yes, I KNOW the procedure and the de rigueur stance of submission.) They will then run your name through “the system.”  If something pops up on their screen, you WILL be taken into custody. And that easily becomes an unbelievable journey into hell. It has happened to me and far too many other Black people – EVERY DAY.

Having a driver’s license or state ID, a social security card or even a passport means nothing in a police stop. There are no “papers” immediately at hand to certify that you are not wanted. It is in the hands of the slave catcher/police to determine if you are “clean” (read “free”).

I am Solomon Northup every day of my life. Every time I walk out my door, there is the possibility of not coming home. Just the simple act of going to see this incredibly real movie summons my fear of no return.

HAROLD LEE RUSH started tracing his family tree roughly 15 years ago. He was able to trace his mother’s side back four generations, but his father’s side only two. “When I first became aware of Sharon’s work and site, I discovered that I needed to redo my approach and have found tremendous help as well as encouragement from Our Black Ancestry. I have now been able to enlist the assistance of family who weren’t interested before. I have also had a DNA analysis done – found that I’m 72% African…very pleased with that!”

400 Years a Slave

9 November 2013

Scene from the film "12 Years a Slave"

Scene from the film “12 Years a Slave”

After weeks of anticipation, I finally saw the movie 12 Years a Slave.

In trying to unpack my thoughts, the one thing I do not want to do is review the film. Others will do that far more adeptly than I. Suffice it to say, the film was STUNNING — in every sense of the word, at all possible levels.

As an African American genealogist, I am more informed than most about the history of African American people and our subjugation to slavery in the Americas. From my personal family tree, I can name 12 ancestors whose humanity was violated. (And that is just the “top note” as I know there are others whose names will never be found.)

For the past 30+ years, I have been on a mission to bring their stories to light — not just for my own edification, but for public exposure. It was thus that I created Our Black Ancestry for the purpose of “empowering our future by honoring our past.”

Every name I learn, every document I uncover, every story I reveal … all of it constitutes a mere fragment in the worldwide complicity of economic aspiration that resulted in a heinous crime against  humanity. It is a crime that has never been fully addressed, punished or resolved. White Americans relegate this past to the fond digression of films like Gone with the Wind. African Americans often refuse to look back, perhaps in an attempt to control the antipathy that surely must reside within our wounded souls.

The powerful essence of the movie was that it encapsulated a visual depiction of the words I read in books and documents.

As I witnessed the unfolding story of Solomon Northup, I was mentally transported into a cotton field where my great grandparents toiled without relief in  Lowndes County, Alabama.

I lay in the bed of my great grandmother in Noxubee County, Mississippi as she succumbed to sexual objectification by the man who fathered her 17 children — thus being elevated over a 10 year span from “farmhand” to “housekeeper.”

I experienced the anguish of an inconsolable mother whose cries for her stolen children were so overwhelmingly rife with anguish, her fellow slave retorted that she “stop wailing.” She then endured further punishment by being sold away by an owner who refused to entertain the unconscionable pain he had caused.

As Northup was hung by the neck and left dangling in desperation, I envisioned my uncle who was lynched.

I shared the pathos of generations of people — my people — kidnapped, chained, whipped, crippled, violated and traumatized in every possible way. Slave masters reduced themselves and their prey to a level of barbarity that defies imagination, unleashing a vicious cycle of violence that informs our society unto this very day.  

I cannot fathom the cognitive dissonance of these men (and their consort wives) who did what they did and justified it with the word of a God I do not know.

In the end, as Northup climbed into the wagon of his rescuers, all he could do was gaze with sadness and longing at the ones he left behind. In the final analysis, it was they who were the most tragic of victims because their subjugation was never to be relieved. 

Sixty years removed from the only relative I knew in person who was enslaved — my father’s grandmother — I am limited to a vicarious awareness of what she and my other family members endured. There is no doubt in my mind… I would NOT have survived. Yet, I am grateful they did because, if not for them, I would not BE.