Journeys From The Journey -
Textile Narratives
Beloved
“You know, they straightened out the Mississippi River in places to make room for houses and livable acreage. Occasionally the river floods these places. ‘Floods’ is the word they use, but in fact it is not flooding; it is remembering. Remembering where it used to be. All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was.
-Toni Morrison
This piece is about the experience of being a mother, separated from her children. It is my story of slavery, and it is countless mothers' stories of slavery. Separation of mothers and children, separation of living lineages, has been one of the main tools of American oppression. It continues long after abolition.
I did not know this as a young person trapped in modern-day slavery. I lost my first child at just thirteen years old and was used as a breeder for years after. I felt alone in the world without my children and that I had failed by having them taken from me. I remember I gasped out loud in the bookstore when I finally opened Toni Morrison's book Beloved and saw that it was about exactly this. I am part of a deep and storied history of parents who grieve their children- who hope against all odds that they will one day be free and that they have known love. I know that I tried to pour all the love I could into my short time with them.
The panel I made is a representation of a woman showing her small child the night sky. She is preparing her little one for the hard road to come. She tells him that they will always be under the same stars. This has always comforted me. I talk to my missing children sometimes at night. For a long time, I read them the book Goodnight Moon, I would change the last line to goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight beloved children everywhere.
When I think about my children, I think about rivers. How they remember where they flowed and return as flood to whatever stands in the place of their clearing. Mothers are homes, made mostly of water. We never forget. Mothers are forever a channel of memory. -R.B.
Stitching by storyteller
My Own Road
My journey was mapped out and clear. A wide road of privilege and opportunity. The corporate job, academic reputation, and perfect spouse pointed to a secure life and a known destination. But something was missing.
This road was designed by someone else, particularly my parents. Done with extreme care and commitment, giving me every opportunity they would want for their child. Yet it lacked the unknown, the excitement of curves, the passion of hills and valleys, and the opportunities to pass through dark tunnels.
So I chose a narrower road. One without a map, one that remains under construction. I got divorced and quit my job. It may sound romantic, but there was a real price to pay. Mom and dad disapproved, children disengaged, finances became check-to-check. But every day I’m living, autopilot is not an option. I’m exploring art, shedding restrictive expectations, and finding new ways to connect to the divine.
I don’t judge the drivers on the expressway. Sometimes, efficiency, speed, and reaching the destination are the only options available to drivers and passengers. But I am so grateful that, this time, I chose my own path. Compiled from numerous stories. (Compilation of a common theme for many storytellers)
Before the Heathen
Imagine a world
where our hearts
flatline when a
child is torn
from its mother,
when a father is commoditized,
when a remitter is entrapped,
when an innocent is coerced.
Where we feel
the divinity of the infidel.
Where we see
the terror and resignation
of the foreigner.
Where the death spiral
of clouded hearts and
insecure deities
no longer feeds on
separation, extraction,
and dominion.
But instead, we return to a
time before the
creation of the heathen.
Before the tree of separation.