preface

The first time I heard my uncle use the phrase “silent suffering”, we were driving back from my cousin’s graduation. Somewhere along I-90, I’d mentioned how my cousin’s car was so nice for his first one. My aunt Betty began to list off his other nice things, how they got the car from the dealer at a good price, how her and my uncle’s first car was an old beater with a sagging roof, but now her son and his girlfriend were moving to Phoenix in their nice, new car, and living in a luxury apartment, and when she was their age they didn’t have things as nice as them. My uncle chided, they worked hard and it is what it is and end of conversation. —But— Once Betty starts, she doesn’t stop. 

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“Silent suffering, Betty.” He told her. 

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—Well, okay— she replied, a bit sheepishly. 

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I was taken aback by his abrupt dismissal. I adore my uncle, he’s my thoughtful, family-oriented, gentle giant Uncle Tom that everyone in my family looks up to. At 19, it was the first time it had ever occurred to me that my family was not perfect. Growing up, there were never fights at the dinner table, no weird cousins to avoid, or shortages of presents at Christmas. It was a privilege to have functional, loving relationships to look to in my parents, aunts and uncles, and grandparents. But, this evocation of silent suffering gnawed at me. Shove it under the rug, push your feelings down deep, don’t talk about your bitterness, it’s unproductive. ​

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Then, my sister received a box of family records from my maternal grandmother. My cousins and I were so excited to sift through this collection of xeroxed diary entries, letters, and newspaper clippings that dated all the way back to 1827 when Thomas Byrd Parks settled in Newnan, Georgia. There was this sense of awe, reading the letters written by a distant relative from the 1860s. But then, the realization set in that this man was a soldier, specifically a Confederate soldier, fighting for the right for his family to keep their slaves.

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My cousins and I stared at each other, unsure of what to do with the knowledge that our not-so-distant ancestors held slaves. Eventually, my sister packed up the box and left it in the trunk of her car for two years. But these untold stories haunted me and I felt complicit in perpetuating their silencing. So, I asked my sister if I could keep the box, and I began the process of remediating the archives that we have inherited. 

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My great-great-aunt Francie compiled these family documents for me and my cousins to discover years later. In the closing notes of the Red Folio, Francie wrote: “I find it interesting to have even this glimpse of members of our family ancestors… They seem to have been a close family. I wish we knew more.” I plan to continue her work, and the work of many others who came before. ​Silent suffering courses through my family’s legacy, one which is rooted in voices that have been forgetten through the generations. The silent suffering my family has endured, that my family has passed down, and that my family has enacted onto others. Privilege, oppression, and enslavement.

 

This project is a labor of care; it is an attempt to re-construct a more encompassing narrative for my family and all of our entanglements.