tree of life

For the rest of March and the beginning of April, our theme is Roots and Origins. I expect you to come away with plenty of personal themes, memories, and storylines to work with as we go through these explorations together. When people ask me where to start with their writing, I often say to either start with their five senses, or start with a meaningful memory or scene. Now that we’ve spent some time experimenting with our five senses and showing and telling, let’s put that practice into writing about our roots and memories, and our personal and generational stories.

My current work-in-progress is a collection of essays about reclaiming my story, and part of that includes looking more closely at my roots—who I came from, where I came from, and how my childhood family shaped me and the dynamics of my current family. One of the themes I am exploring is how my parents chose silence and didn’t talk to me about my mother’s mental illness and the impact on our family, and they never asked about how it was affecting me. I kept my confusion and resentment hidden in the shadows of my mind where shame grows, and on the outside I smiled, brought home good grades, and played along so I would not add any additional tension to our home.

Growing up in a black, middle class family in the eighties, if there was any discussion about mental illness around me, it was whispered. Physical ailments were discussed openly, with candor and even humor. My grandmother used to warn me that if I continued to put heaping spoonfuls of sugar in my cereal that I would end up with diabetes, unable to have any sweets at all. The adults would sit around and swap stories about their symptoms, medications and side effects, admitting to pain in their bodies but never in their minds. Mental health issues were sent to church and kept behind closed doors. Watching and listening to the adults, I learned that the worst thing you could do is make yourself look uncivilized or unstable. I learned how to live in denial of what I saw, and felt, and knew; and I learned how to deal with problems by hiding them.

I reached a point in my healing journey where I admitted to myself that this conditioning was having a negative impact on my mental health, relationships, and family life. I wanted to understand more about my parents’ roots—who they were before they became my parents, and what generational factors influenced their way of thinking and being.

I was blown away to find out that my parent’s generation was actually called The Silent Generation, also known as the Traditionalist Generation, the era preceding the Baby Boomers. Born in 1934 and 1946, my parents came up under the influence of racial oppression and segregation, the aftermath of The Great Depression, World War II, and the threat of the Korean War and communism. A 1951 article in TIME Magazine coined them the “Silents” because the youth of this era were taught to be seen and not heard, and they were raised to work hard and not complain. Due to widespread uncertainty and the harrowing conditions of the time, secrecy was a survival tactic, and protecting family was everything, particularly in the black community.

I weaved this context into my essay, as I wrote to find my own healing narrative, as well as a hopeful perspective for readers whose parents and families are a source of great joy and great pain.

This is just one storyline that I’ve reimagined by looking more closely at my familial, cultural, and societal roots.

Exploring my memories, I also reconnected with my inner child and what inspired her, the nostalgia of my hometown stomping grounds, the soundtracks of different seasons in my life, and so much more. This week’s exercise it to answer reflection questions based on the Tree of Life exercise by David Denborough. To get the most out of the exercise, you will need to spend more than five-minutes on it, but it’s something you can revisit in your journaling sessions over time, and it’s particularly helpful in discovering themes for your stories.

GG ReneeMarch 12, 2023Comment