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At heartful ballad of love and grief from a daughter to her mother.

A young girl celebrates the name that was chosen just for her.

“That Old Man” “‘That old man. That old man.’ Those were the first words out of your mother’s mouth every evening when I dragged through the door from a long hard day in the field. She was so bitter about our life as sharecroppers, and it was tearing the family apart. I worked from sun up to sun down to take care of my family and provide income for my landlord. The white man don’t work us like mules anymore.” Dad talked, leaning over in his recliner. In a few months he would be seventy nine years old. He reminisced about his life experiences as a sharecropper. The old sharecropper’s steps were getting slower by the day. His oversized head was full of gray curly hair and his thick black eyebrows, I knew as a child, were snow white, but as eye-catching as ever. I moved close to him to make sure he could hear me. "Dad," I asked, “Why didn’t you move north and get away from the south? Why didn’t you take us and move away from the cotton fields of Mississippi for a better life?” He looked up at me, flushed, and he slowly began to tell his story: One day I came home and your mother had packed her things and left for Illinois with all of y’all. I should have seen it coming; she has asked me so many times to pack up and go north, but I refused. I knew times were hard and jobs were scarce in the north because everybody was running there to get away from the cotton fields. She wrote me and begged me for weeks to come to Alton. Folks like us with little or no money didn’t have a telephone back then, so we had to write letters. I was farming with an old broke down tractor that would turn over. One day the landlord came to the field to threaten, to curse, and to blame me for the tractor turning over. Even though he knew the tractor was old and worn out, he continued to blame me. Eventually, I gave in and moved to Alton, Illinois, to keep the family together and to get away from the abuse of that old man. I was in Alton for about five months or so with my wife and three girls at that time, living with my brother and his family. I couldn’t find a job for nothing in the world that paid enough money to support my family. It was the mid-fifties and times were hard, even in the North. That was when Eisenhower was President. I had to drop out of school when I was fifteen to work the fields. I only made it to the fifth grade. Besides farming, the only work experience I had back then was working on a logging camp. I made twenty-five to thirty-five dollars a week on the logging camp minus a dollar and fifty cents a day room and board. I had to quit; I was away from my family six days a week! I only saw them on Sunday and my wife was really unhappy about that. Your mother and I argued a lot because money was so scarce when we were in Alton. I wanted our own place for my family; I didn’t like staying with other folks, even though it was my brother and his family. I have always been an independent man and took care of myself and my family. So, after a few months of being in Alton, I moved back to Mississippi by myself. It was in the spring and time to plant the crop. So, I decided to move back and to give it another try. My landlord was glad to see me return, even though he tried to hide his feelings. That happy kind of a look was all over his face. He refused to buy another tractor for me to work the farm. Trying to work the fields with a broke down tractor was hard. My wife was right, “That old man,” she would often exclaim about the landlord. It’s a wonder I didn’t fall dead to the ground. Your mother refused to move back at first. She stayed in Alton for several more weeks. One day I looked up and my wife, Essie Mae, and my girls were walking in the house. She looked at me and said, “I have to keep the family together.” Even though my wife returned on her own will, she was still unhappy; she continued to complain. One evening a truck came through picking up folks for revival. We got on that truck and went to church. Your mother got save

A woman with no name. A wild, abandoned island. A family desperate for answers. A debut thriller like no other. On a small Greek island, a woman comes ashore with no memory of who she is, where she's from, or how she came to be shipwrecked there. Worse, she has no way of leaving. As she's nursed back to health by the island's only inhabitants, four friends on an annual retreat, she detects tensions between the group that suggest not all is quite as it seems. Her new acquaintances each appear to be hiding something--something that may relate to the mystery of her identity. Meanwhile, in a pretty suburb on the outskirts of London, Eloise, the mother of a newborn and a toddler, vanishes into thin air. Her husband, Lochlan, is desperate to find her--but as the police look into the disappearance, it becomes clear that Lochlan and Eloise's marriage was not the perfect union it appeared. As Lochlan races to discover his wife's whereabouts, Eloise enacts an investigation of her own. What both discover will place lives at risk and upend everything they thought they knew about their marriage, their past, and what lies in store for the future.

In the early 1990s, there was a people—some born slaves, some born descendants—who struggled to be a people. It was a transitional period where there was no clear tomorrow. Born in and of those times was Annie Pearl Jones. She had curiosity about life that tarnished her life, leaving her preoccupied with death. She has a family that could not understand or console her. And so it was, as her family struggled to endure those times, Pearl focused on death as death on her. Pearl was the daughter of Jackson and Lizzie Lee Jones and the older sister of my mother, Lola Mae (Monk). The Story of Pearl is my mother's memories of a sister she loved and never really knew.

The Maid Narratives shares the memories of black domestic workers and the white families they served, uncovering the often intimate relationships between maid and mistress. Based on interviews with over fifty people -- both white and black -- these stories deliver a personal and powerful message about resilience and resistance in the face of oppression in the Jim Crow South. The housekeepers, caretakers, sharecroppers, and cooks who share their experiences in The Maid Narratives ultimately moved away during the Great Migration. Their perspectives as servants who left for better opportunities outside of the South offer an original telling of physical and psychological survival in a racially oppressive caste system: Vinella Byrd, for instance, from Pine Bluff, Arkansas, recalls how a farmer she worked for would not allow her to clean her hands in the family's wash pan. These narratives are complemented by the voices of white women, such as Flora Templeton Stuart, from New Orleans, who remembers her maid fondly but realizes that she knew little about her life. Like Stuart, many of the white narrators remain troubled by the racial norms of the time. Viewed as a whole, the book presents varied, rich, and detailed accounts, often tragic, and sometimes humorous. The Maid Narratives reveals, across racial lines, shared hardships, strong emotional ties, and inspiring strength.

Cross-Rhythms investigates the literary uses and effects of blues and jazz in African-American literature of the twentieth century. Texts by James Baldwin, Ralph Ellison, Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, Gayl Jones, Toni Morrison and Ishmael Reed variously adopt or are consciously informed by a jazz aesthetic; this aesthetic becomes part of a strategy of ethnic identification and provides a medium with which to consider the legacy of trauma in African-American history. These diverse writers are all thoroughly immersed in a socio-cultural context and a literary aesthetic that embodies shifting conceptions of ethnic identity across the twentieth century. The emergence of blues and jazz is, likewise, a crucial product of, as well as catalyst for, this context, and in their own aesthetic explorations of notions of ethnicity these writers consciously engage with this musical milieu. By examining the highly varied manifestations of a jazz aesthetic as possibly the fundamental common denominator which links these writers, this study attempts to identify an underlying unifying principle. As the different writers write against essentializing or organic categories of race, the very fact of a shared engagement with jazz sensibilities in their work redefines the basis of African-American communal identity.