Askia… The Guy who became a King.
copyright Logic Amen 2007
No one has had a greater impact on me spiritually than my Uncle Askia. Askia is not his Christian birth name. My Uncle's Christian name is Guy Foster Lumpkin. I remember thinking my uncle had the coolest name. The simplicity in the name Guy made it sound so cool. He reminded me of the simple things in life that are cool. The jump shot in the game of basketball that goes in from long distance. The tight spiral of a football as it travels through the air into the hands of a receiver. The smoke rings puffed by a pipe smoker. My Uncle Guy was simple like the rainbow that appears in the distance after the falling of rain or the beads of water that pop up on the surface of a waxed car. He was simply cool.
My Uncle Guy was a beautiful looking man. He and I have the same eyes—tight and inquisitive. He typically looked as if he was questioning the world in front of him. My Uncle Guy was very aware of his external surroundings and conscious of his internal being. People were aware of him also—their eyes followed him like he was a multi-colored spider walking across a wall. The colors made them look in awe but also triggered anxiety because they were taught to fear his potential. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul, but in the case of my Uncle Guy, I believe people looked in his eyes to see themselves. His eyes became a mirror.
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Grandpa Maurice
copyright Logic Amen 2007
My Grandfather Maurice actually passed as I was writing the first pages of this memoir. To be exact he passed today July 13, 2007. My memories of him are simple—always had a wad of money. Always had a cigar in his mouth. Always talking about a building he did demolition on—and always talked like he had rocks in his mouth. And he always talked to you making you seem bigger than the world. In retrospect I used to think when I was younger: “How could someone so much bigger than me make me feel like I was the one he was talking up to?” It was a gift at how he could manage not to talk down to someone almost 50 years younger than him.
Grandpa Maurice was always—I mean always—kind, loving, full of humor, and an absolute pleasure to be around. Grandpa Maurice is my father's father and I have my regrets when it comes to my relatives on my father's side of the family. Though there were attempts by members from both sides of the family to consistently connect me with my Father's side of the family, I neglected to nurture the relationships. Fifty percent of the neglect was because I was young and did not understand the importance of knowing my father's side of the family.
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Momma…
copyright Logic Amen 2007
My mother was Mommy, but my Grandmother Iniece was Momma. A lot of who I am today came from Iniece Lumpkin. My Grandmother is a Crawford by birth—Lumpkin is her maiden name. Momma looked what some people would call a “Black Indian.” In fact, my Grandmother would often say: “I'm not Black; I'm Injin (Indian).” To this day I don't know if she was serious or not. In retrospect, perhaps that was Momma's way of teaching me the history of our family tree. It was Momma's way of saying it didn't just consists of Black people but Native Americans and Whites also. Momma would often tell me we belonged to the Blackfoot Indian tribe. When I looked on a map which designates the places of Indian tribes in America, Black foot was in Canada miles from Tuscaloosa, Alabama where Momma is from. There is a Black feet tribe in that area, but to me the accuracy of the tribe wasn't important. What was important was my Grandmother was teaching me. In fact teaching was Momma's profession— she was an elementary teacher.
Momma was without a doubt the leader of our family. Without pieces of paper to prove her legitimacy, Momma was a master storyteller, spiritual leader, financial consultant, and as I said before master teacher. All history went through Momma. Momma told me how we were all Crawfords and how my parents were distant cousins. Momma was usually good at spreading news which would be labeled as risqué' and unpopular. Some of the subjects in these stories probably would have wanted Momma not to tell their business, but gossip was intricate to her storytelling. My Mother told me Momma's stories put a huge burden on her as a child, almost forcing her to think about things much more advanced than her level of maturity. But Momma chose the stories she told me very carefully—the risqué ones were either edited or replaced with stories that detailed the limbs of our family tree. When Momma spoke of these relatives I had never met, they came to life as their names slid from her mouth. When Momma told a story she put me in the rural south, in the homes of distant family members, and in the streets of places I had never visited. And though she told the stories countless times, I wouldn't be able to retell them or explain how our family tree. Perhaps I wasn't listening for information, rather I was listening for comfort—to be close to a woman who I thought I would always be around to remind me of the story once again. I thought Momma would live forever—well at least long enough to tell one last story. And since I didn't receive that last story, I tell others stories of my relationship with Momma in an attempt to keep her alive.
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