I AM STARING AT THESE PHOTOGRAPHS and had no idea who the people were in them. The photos were quite old because the edges were frayed, and the black and white images were faded. The people were related to me, at least I thought so. I found the photos stuffed in an envelope as I was going through a “junk” drawer. From the scenery and clothing, I had a feeling these photos might have been taken in my ancestors’ country. I would love to know whether I was looking at a great, great, great uncle or maybe it was a great + grandfather or cousin; there was no way to find out. The oldest relative I asked recognized the child in one of the photos but did not know any of the other people. Encouraged by this found treasure, I searched through more drawers in the house and was successful in finding more photos. The thought occurred to me why someone did not put all of them in a photo album, instead of stuffing them in flimsy envelopes. On one of the photographs there was writing on the back, but it was a different language. This was my proof that some of the photos were taken in a different country. My mind reeled with the notion that in my hand I was holding something that had come from a different country, traveled here and then handed down from generation to generation. It was history, my history. IN THE HALLWAY, THERE IS A photo hanging of my great, great, great grandmother. She is the oldest relative that I have a photo of. I believe, she was alive when Napoleon invaded Russia. Though I have no other knowledge about her life or even her name; there is something about seeing her and knowing I am related to her that forms this ghostly connection. There is nothing about her facial features or surroundings that triggers a sense of familiarity; however, I do feel a sense of belonging and imagine how she would react to the world I grew up in compared to hers. Would she have a sense of belonging herself or a sense of pride, maybe? I imagine what life must have been for her. In the photo, she is sitting on a small wooden stool that is barely visible with the fullness of her long black skirt. There is a kerchief tied around her head, though she is sitting indoors. Behind her is a small 2 drawer, wooden chest; only one of the drawers has a handle. I wish I could fill in the gap between her and the generations of family that grew up with me; to learn more about our history and which relatives are here because of her. I can totally sympathize with the residents who live in their little community depicted in this documentary, in a land that their ancestors were forced to come live in. THE CITIZENS OF AFRICATOWN HAVE HAD their stories handed down through the generations. Many of them involve a boat that might have sunk off their coast. Written by newcomer Kern Jackson and written and directed by Margaret Brown (The Order of Myths, Be Here to Love Me), this story that was set in Alabama was fascinating to me. Being into family, I was intrigued by the variety of residents that were interviewed, listening to their family’s history. I thought the presentation of their story was especially poignant due to what we have been witnessing at present, regarding the banning of books and not teaching portions of history in the classroom. To see the life the people are living, despite the challenges both environmentally and financially, with the hope of finding proof to explain the evolution of their existence was touching and real for me. This movie was the perfect example of one component of our country’s history.
3 ¼ stars