Many African Americans consider Africa to be the Motherland — the land from which our ancestors were stolen, forever separated from their families, culture, language and religion. They were forced into bondage predominantly in the American South, where generations toiled under horrific conditions for almost 250 years with no pay. Most of us don’t know, and probably never will know, the exact African country or tribe we’re from. Most of us, without doing extensive and purposeful research, know little about our African foreparents’ lives. And many of us don’t even know much about the distant ancestors we had in the United States, as they were sold off, their names changed and records of their existence buried within other documents. If we’re fortunate, we might be able to trace back seven or eight generations, and then there’s an emptiness, a void, a big question mark.
There are some who have had the good fortune to visit and perhaps even return to the African Motherland, where they can experience rich acceptance and a sense of freedom in spaces where almost everyone looks like them or other family members. The music, the food, the clothing, the way people greet each other is familiar despite the hundreds of years of separation. Friends who have visited described how they were able to deeply exhale when they touched African soil and interacted with those who could be distant relatives. Even if biologically that’s not the case, spiritually it is.
I’ve never been to the continent of Africa, and one day hope to get there. In the meantime, I’ve decided to regard Mississippi as my Godmotherland. My paternal family’s history is in the marrow of Mississippi. My great-grandmother, Ida B. Wells, was born enslaved and raised in northern Mississippi’s Holly Springs over 150 years ago. Her father, Jim Wells, was born to an enslaved woman, Peggy, and the enslaver, Mr. Wells, in Tippah County. So, I know that my great-great-great-grandmother was enslaved in Mississippi. By my estimate, that would put my family in this country from at least the early 1800s. Unless I take the time to look through records of property sales from almost two centuries ago, I will never know about family members before that. My broken family history is the typical African-American story. And I know more about multiple generations of my family than many others.
After the Civil War and emancipation, Mississippi went from one of the wealthiest states to one of the poorest once cotton production by enslaved labor was no longer its main source of income. At that time, over 50 percent of the population was Black, and the passage of the 15th Amendment in 1870, which gave African-American men the right to vote, led to the election of dozens of trailblazing African-American legislators.
My great-grandmother Ida came of age after the Civil War, during the brief 12-year Reconstruction era where racial progress was made, then experienced the dismantling of rights and rise of unbridled violence during post-Reconstruction. A few years after moving to Memphis, she was met with death threats in response to her journalistic exposure of lynching, and ultimately left the terror of the South as millions of others did during the Great Migration. As a result, I was born and raised in Chicago. Surrounded by my parents’ generation, many of whom were first-generation Northerners, I heard about the brutality of the Godmotherland. They recounted the oppression, violence, terror, injustice, chronic inequality and insults that were inherent in living in the place where over a century before, enslaved people were sent as punishment. It sounded like one of the most brutal places on earth. Attempts to break spirits, break families, break souls were part of the lexicon of the area.
Due to all of these tales, I was afraid of Mississippi. I came of age in the wake of Emmett Till’s murder, and during my childhood the modern Civil Rights Movement was in full swing with freedom buses, freedom schools, freedom marches, freedom houses, freedom libraries and freedom political parties — all focused on the struggle for full citizenship.
I was well into adulthood the very first time I ever crossed the state line into Mississippi. I anticipated seeing, in real life, signs and outward displays of apartheid terror. Instead, in certain communities I experienced a warm welcome by what felt like long-lost family. Even though I was meeting people for the first time, there was a sense of being home. Everything was familiar, even though I had never been there before. The way people spoke, the food, the way people dressed, the music all made me understand the southernness of Chicago.
I’ve since been to Holly Springs many times and each time felt I had a better sense of who I am. But there was something deeper that stirred in me when I recently went to Jackson and visited the Mississippi Civil Rights Museum. Looking at the exhibits that showed incident after incident, face after face, of strength, determination, bravery and courage to force this country to become all that it can be for all of its citizens made an impact. The trigger warnings for some of the images made me think about how challenging my foreparents’ lives were. In a safe, temperature-controlled building, the mere act of looking at pictures or videos was something that could be upsetting for some. All I could think was: What was it like to live it?
In the midst of lynchings and other unspeakable violence and horror, the Godmotherland is where my foreparents created culture and passageways to freedom, including intricate quilts with hidden messages. It’s where incredibly talented people birthed blues music and influenced several genres including jazz, country and gospel. It’s where scraps of food were transformed into soul food.
This Godmotherland was one of the hotbeds of activism and resistance, of persistence and attitude. In this environment, organizations like the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) were formed, and leaders such as Medgar Evers, Ella Baker, Fannie Lou Hamer, Dorie Ladner, Unita Blackwell and James Meredith were shaped and supported.
Today, the state is 36 percent Black, and despite the dominance of White men in state-level positions, several cities and towns have African-American mayors, including Meridian, Vicksburg, Holly Springs, and the capitol, Jackson. There are several HBCUs (Historically Black Colleges and Universities) which were built within the first few years after the Civil War. There is a rich history of vision, self-determination, self-pride and alignment with cultural pride in Mississippi.
This Godmotherland is where my father’s family hails from. They toiled the earth. Their blood runs deep in the soil of this place. Yes, my people way, way back are no doubt from Africa. But, as a Northerner, I feel a desire to connect with the place that shaped many of my ancestors who survived this land. And that is Mississippi. In the belly of oppression, we remained hopeful. In the midst of incredible injustice, we still found joy. In between economic, spiritual, and physical violence, we carried ourselves with dignity, never seeking retribution. All we fought for was peace and justice and opportunity.
As we all seek and feel a sense of pride about our spiritual and cultural history, there’s no doubt that Africa is the original place. But, the American South is what millions overcame. Even though I grew up around people who felt Mississippi was a place to escape, now decades after living in the North, many like me are taking the time to learn more about “home.” Even though our ancestors’ experiences require trigger warnings, more are starting to delve into what made us into the people we are today. The Godmotherland holds the key to who we are. Our ancestors survived in order for us to be here today, and we can look at museum exhibits and historical markers with open eyes. We can engage in civil rights trails and tours to retrace what our ancestors experienced. Today, thousands who spent their entire lives in the North are doing more than visiting the Godmotherland. They are moving back South in what has been coined the “reverse migration”— reclaiming the place where our ancestors once lived and returning “home.”
Michelle Duster is an educator, public historian, and activist whose advocacy has led to street names, monuments, historical markers, and other public history projects that add to the representation of African Americans and women. She is the author of several books, including Ida B. the Queen: The Extraordinary Life and Legacy of Ida B. Wells and Ida B. Wells, Voice of Truth about her paternal great-grandmother. She also has an essay in the anthology We Refuse to Be Silent: Women’s Voices on Justice for Black Men.