Writing My Southern Roots

     I was a teenager when my grandmother, aka “Nana,” began to develop dementia.  She’d been a sweet, proud, incredibly resourceful woman, and it was hard–especially as an adolescent– to deal with her frequent forgetfulness and odd behaviors.  But what really made an impression on me was they way she would suddenly stare into an empty corner, crying out for her long-lost father: Papa!  Come back, Papa!  Please!  

Eula Emma Dendy, c. 1919

     These Ghost Papa episodes brought to light a family history I hadn’t known: The story of my grandmother’s difficult coming-of-age in rural east Texas in the early 1900s, one that involved financial and physical hardship, the Spanish Influenza epidemic, and the disappearance of her beloved father when his family needed him most.  It’s a story not only of loss, but a betrayal that still traumatized my grandmother–and left its mark on me, too.

     There’s the old adage, “Write what you know.” I’ve always thought of it more as, “Write what haunts you.”   There is much in this story to haunt–not only the personal betrayal and early trauma, but also the rampant white supremacy and stultifying sexism that existed in this time and place, as it did in many places.  My grandmother didn’t talk of these things much, but my research tells me they would’ve drastically shaped her experiences during that time, just as laughter and love and small bouts of good fortune would have, too.

Nana and me, c. 1983

     My grandmother died without being able to reconcile the father she adored (and who apparently adored her) with the one who set in motion her family’s demise.   There was, however, a twist to the real-life story that is the inspiration for my novel’s conclusion, giving Leola an agency and peace of mind I wish Nana had experienced.  And who knows?  Maybe the imagined resolution is actually the truth.

     I’d like to think so.