Alice Walker

In Search oj Our Mothers' Gardens

I described her own nature and temperament. Told how they needed a larger life
for their expression. ... I pointed out that in lieu of proper channels, her emo-
tions had overflowed into paths that dissipated them. I talked, beautifully I
thought, about an art that would be born, an art that would open the way for
women the likes of her. I asked her to hope, and build up an inner life against the
coming of that day. ... I sang, with a strange quiver in my voice, a promise
song.-]ean Toomer, "Avey," Cane
Thepoet speaking to a prostitute who falls asleep while he's talking-
When the poet Jean Toomer walked through the South in the early
twenties, he discovered a curious thing: black women whose spirituality was
so intense, so deep, so unconscious, that they were themselves unaware of the
richness they held. They stumbled blindly through their lives: creatures so
abused and mutilated in body, so dimmed and confused by pain, that they
considered themselves unworthy even of hope. In the selfless abstractions
their bodies became to the men who used them, they became more than
"sexual objects," more even than mere women: they became "Saints." Instead
of being perceived as whole persons, their bodies became shrines: what was
thought to be their minds became temples suitable for worship. These crazy
Saints stared out at the world, wildly, like lunatics-or qUietly, like suicides;
and the "God" that was in their gaze was as mute as a great stone.
Who were these Saints? These crazy, loony, pitiful women?
Some of them, without a doubt, were our mothers and grandmothers.
In the still heat of the post-Reconstruction South, this is how they seemed
to Jean Toomer: exquisite butterflies trapped in an evil honey, toiling away
This essay first appeared in Alice Walker, In Search oj Our Mothers' Gardens (New York, 1972).
402 Alice Walker
their lives in an era, a century, that did not acknowledge them, except as "the
mule of the world." They dreamed dreams that no one knew-not
themselves, in any coherent fashion-and saw visions no one could
stand. They wandered or sat about the countryside crooning lullabies to
ghosts, and drawing the mother of Christ in charcoal on courthouse walls.
They forced their minds to desert their bodies and their striving spir- ..
its sought to rise, like frail whirlwinds from the hard red clay. And when
those frail whirlwinds fell, in scattered particles, upon the ground, no one
mourned. Instead, men lit candles to celebrate the emptiness that remained,
as people do who enter a beautiful but vacant space to resurrect a God.
Our mothers and grandmothers, some of them: moving to music not yet
written. And they waited.
They waited for a day when the unknown thing that was in them would be
made known; but guessed, somehow in their darkness, that on the day of
their revelation they would be long dead. Therefore to Toomer they walked,
and even ran, in slow motion. For they were going nowhere immediate, and
the future was not yet within their grasp. And men took our mothers and
grandmothers, "but got no pleasure from it." So complex was their passion
and their calm.
To Toomer, they lay vacant and fallow as autumn fields, with harvest time
never in Sight: and he saw them enter loveless marriages, without joy; and
become prostitutes, without resistance; and become mothers of children,
without fulfillment.
For these grandmothers and mothers of ours were not Saints, but Artists;
driven to a numb and bleeding madness by the springs of creativity in them
for which there was no release. They were Creators, who lived lives of
spiritual waste, because they were so rich in spirituality-which is the basis
of Art-that the strain of enduring their unused and unwanted talent drove
them insane. Throwing away this spirituality was their pathetic attempt to
lighten the soul to a weight their work-worn, sexually abused bodies could
bear.
What did it mean for a black woman to be an artist in our grandmothers'
time? In our great-grandmothers' day? It is a question with an answer cruel
enough to stop the blood.
Did you have a genius of a great-great-grandmother who died under some
ignorant and depraved white overseer's lash? Or was she required to bake
biscuits for a lazy backwater tramp, when she cried out in her soul to paint
watercolors of sunsets, or the rain falling on the green and peaceful pasture-
In Sear
. cis? Or was her body broken and forced t
ten than not sold away from her)-eight
hen her one joy was the thought of model-
one or clay?
How was the creativity of the black worn:
entury after century, when for most of the
merica, it was a punishable crime for a bI;
efreedom to paint, to sculpt, to expand tt
Consider, if you can bear to imagine it, wI
singing, too, had been forbidden by law. Lis
Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, Roberta Flae
. (hers and imagine those voices muzzled
~ m p e h e n the lives of our "crazy," "Sain
'The agony of the lives of women who m
Essayists, and Short-Story Writers (over,
with their real gifts stifled within them.
_ And, if this were the end of the story, we'
paraphrase of Okot p'Bitek's great poem:
0, my clanswomen
Let us all cry together!
Come,
Let us mourn the death
The death of a Queen
The ash that was produ
By a great fire!
0, this homestead is ut
Close the gates
With lacari thorns,
For our mother
The creator of the Stoo
And all the young won
Have perished in the \\
But this is not the end of the story, for a
and grandmothers, ourselves-have not pI
ask ourselves why, and search for and finl
all efforts to erase it from our minds, just
American women are.
T
In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens 4
0
3
It didnotacknowledgethem,exceptas"the
j
lands? Orwasherbodybrokenandforced tobearchildren(whoweremore
:led dreams that no one knew-not even
ion-andsawvisions noone couldunder-
out the countryside crooning lullabies to
IfChristincharcoaloncourthousewalls.
esert their bodies and their striving spir-
lwinds from the hard red clay. And when
Ittered particles, upon the ground, no one
sto celebratetheemptinessthatremained,
1butvacantspacetoresurrectaGod.
'S, someofthem: movingto musicnotyet
unknownthingthatwasinthemwouldbe
how in their darkness, thaton the day of
Ig dead. ThereforetoToomertheywalked,
. theyweregoingnowhereimmediate,and
irgrasp. And mentook ourmothersand
refrom it." So complexwas theirpassion
fallowasautumnfields, withharvesttime
:nterloveless marriages, withoutjoy; and
:tance; and become mothers ofchildren,
lthersofourswerenotSaints,butArtists;
.dnessbythespringsofcreativityinthem
They were Creators, who lived lives of
sorichinspirituality-whichisthebasis
theirunusedandunwantedtalentdrove
spiritualitywas their patheticattemptto
York-worn, sexuallyabusedbodiescould
mantobeanartistinourgrandmothers'
lay? Itis aquestionwithananswercruel
great-grandmotherwhodiedundersome
seer's lash? Orwas sherequired to bake
"whenshecriedoutinhersoulto paint
'allingonthegreenandpeacefulpasture-
t
often than not sold away from her)-eight, ten, fifteen, twenty children-
whenheronejoywas thethoughtofmodelingheroicfigures ofrebellion,in
stoneorclay?
Howwas thecreativityoftheblackwomankeptalive,yearafteryearand
centuryaftercentury, whenformostoftheyearsblackpeoplehavebeenin
America, itwasapunishablecrimefor ablackpersontoreadorwrite? And
thefreedomto paint,tosculpt,toexpandthemindwithactiondidnotexist.
Consider, ifyou canbear to imagineit, whatmighthave beenthe resultif
singing,too,hadbeenforbiddenbylaw. ListentothevoicesofBessieSmith,
Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, Roberta Flack, and Aretha Franklin, among
others, andimagine those voices muzzledfor life. Thenyou may beginto
comprehend the lives ofour"crazy," "Sainted" mothersandgrandmothers.
The agony ofthe lives ofwomen who might have been Poets, Novelists,
Essayists, and Short-Story Writers (over a period of centuries), who died
withtheirrealgiftsstifledwithinthem.
And,if thisweretheendofthestory,wewouldhavecausetocryoutinmy
paraphraseofOkotp'Bitek'sgreatpoem:
0,myclanswomen
Letusallcrytogether!
Come,
Letusmournthedeathofourmother,
ThedeathofaQueen
Theashthatwasproduced
Byagreatfire!
0,thishomesteadisutterlydead
Closethegates
Withlacari thorns,
Forourmother
ThecreatoroftheStoolislost!
Andalltheyoungwomen
Haveperishedinthewilderness!
Butthisis nottheendofthestory,foralltheyoungwomen-ourmothers
andgrandmothers,ourselves-havenotperishedinthewilderness.Andifwe
askourselveswhy, andsearchforandfindtheanswer,wewillknowbeyond
alleffortstoeraseitfromourminds,justexactlywho,andofwhat,weblack
Americanwomenare.
404 Alice Walker
One example, perhaps the most pathetic, most misunderstood one, can
provide a backdrop for our mothers' work: Phillis Wheatley, a slave in the
17oos.
Virginia Woolf, in her book A Room of Ones Own, wrote that in order for a
woman to write fiction she must have two things, certainly: a room of her
own (With key and lock) and enough money to support herself.
What then are we to make of Phillis Wheatley, a slave, who owned not
even herself? This sickly, frail black girl who required a servant of her own at
times-her health was so precarious-and who, had she been white, would
have been easily considered the intellectual superior of all the women and
most of the men in the society of her day.
Virginia Woolf wrote further, speaking of course not of our Phillis, that
"any woman born with a great gift in the sixteenth century [insert "eigh-
teenth century," insert "black woman," insert "born or made a slave"] would
certainly have gone crazed, shot herself, or ended her days in .some ,lonely
cottage outside the village, half witch, half wizard [insert "Saint"], leared and
mocked at. For it needs little skill and psychology to be sure that a highly
gifted girl who had tried to use her gift for poetry would have been so
thwarted and hindered by contrary instincts [add "chains, guns, the lash, the
ownership of one's body by someone else, submission to an alien religion"L
that she must have lost her health and sanity to a certainty."
The key words, as they relate to Phillis, are "contrary instincts." For when
we read the poetry of Phillis Wheatley-as when we read the novels of Nella
Larsen or the oddly false-sounding autobiography of that freest of all black
women writers, Zora Hurston-evidence of "contrary instincts" is every-
where. Her loyalties were completely divided, as was, without question, her
mind.
But how could this be otherwise? Captured at seven, a slave of wealthy,
doting whites who instilled in her the "savagery" of the Africa they "rescued"
her from, one wonders if she was even able to remember her homeland as she
had known it, or as it really was.
Yet, because she did try to use her gift for poetry in a world that made her a
slave, she was "so thwarted and hindered by ... contrary instincts, that
she ... lost her health...." In the last years of her brief life, burdened not
only with the need to express her gift but also with a penniless, friendless
"freedom" and several small children for whom she was forced to do stren-
uous work to feed, she lost her health, certainly. Suffering from malnutrition
and neglect and who knows what mental agonies, Phillis Wheatley died.
In Se
So torn by "contrary instincts" was blad
her deSCription of "the Goddess"-as she p
not have-is ironically, cruelly humorous.
ridicule for more than a century. It is usu
memory as that of a fool. She wrote:
The Goddess comes, she moves
Olive and laurel binds her golde
Wherever shines this native of t
Unnumber'd charms and recenl
It is obvious that Phillis, the slave, c<
morning; prior, perhaps, to bringing in
c M ~ lunch. She took her imagery from the on
others.
With the benefit of hindsight we ask, "1
But at last, Phillis, we understand. No
struggling, ambivalent lines are forced or
not an idiot or a traitor; only a sickly lit
home and country and made a slave; a wo
song that was your gift, although in a lane
your bewildered tongue. It is not so muc
alive, in so many of our ancestors, the noti
Black women are called, in the folklore th
society, "the mule of the world," because
that everyone else-everyone else-refuse!
"Matriarchs," "Superwomen," and "Mean
"Castraters" and "Sapphire's Mama." Whe
ing, our character has been distorted; wh(
we have been handed empty inspiration
farthest corner. When we have asked for
In short, even our plainer gifts, our lab<
knocked down our throats. To be an arti
lowers our status in many respects, rath(
will be.
Therefore we must fearlessly pull out 0
with our lives the living creativity some a
allowed to know. I stress some of them
ostpathetic, mostmisunderstood one, can
:hers' work: PhillisWheatley, a slavein the
Room of One's Own, wrotethatinorderfora
;thave two things, certainly: aroom ofher
eJugh moneytosupportherself.
f Phillis Wheatley, a slave, who ownednot
lckgirlwhorequiredaservantofherownat
ious-andwho, hadshe beenwhite, would
intellectualsuperiorofall thewomenand
[herday.
speakingofcourse notofourPhillis, that
gift in the sixteenth century [insert "eigh-
Iman,"insert"bornormadeaslave"] would
therself, orendedherdaysin-some lonely
fitch,halfwizard[insert"Saint"],'fearedand
:ill andpsychologyto be sure thatahighly
;e her gift for poetry would have been so
tryinstincts[add"chains,guns,thelash,the
eoneelse,submission to analienreligion"],
handsanitytoacertainty."
to Phillis,are"contraryinstincts."Forwhen
eatley-aswhenwereadthenovelsofNella
lng autobiographyofthatfreest ofallblack
-evidence of "contrary instincts" is every-
etelydivided,aswas, withoutquestion,her
rise? Capturedatseven, aslave ofwealthy,
:rthe"savagery"oftheAfricathey"rescued"
evenabletorememberherhomelandasshe
hergiftforpoetryinaworldthatmadehera
:i hindered by ...contrary instincts, that
thelastyearsofherbrieflife, burdenednot
ergiftbutalso witha penniless, friendless
drenfor whomshewasforced to do stren-
ealth,certainly.Sufferingfrommalnutrition
tmentalagonies,PhillisWheatleydied.
In Search of OurMothers' Gardens 405
So tomby"contraryinstincts"wasblack,kidnapped,enslavedPhillisthat
herdescriptionof"theGoddess"-asshepoeticallycalledtheLibertyshedid
nothave-isironically,cruellyhumorous.And,infact, hasheldPhillisupto
ridicule for more thanacentury. It is usuallyreadpriorto hangingPhillis's
memoryasthatofafool. Shewrote:
TheGoddesscomes,shemovesdivinelyfair,
Oliveandlaurelbindshergolden hair.
Wherevershinesthisnativeoftheskies,
Unnumber'dcharmsandrecentgracesrise. [Myitalics]
It is obvious that Phillis, the slave, combed the "Goddess's" hair every
morning; prior, perhaps, to bringing in the milk, or fixing her mistress's
lunch. She tookherimageryfrom theonethingshesawelevatedabove all
others.
Withthebenefitofhindsightweask,"Howcouldshe?"
Butatlast, Phillis, weunderstand. No moresnickering whenyourstiff,
struggling, ambivalentlinesare forced onus. We knownowthatyouwere
notanidiotor a traitor; only a sicklylittle blackgirl, snatched from your
homeandcountryandmadeaslave;awomanwhostillstruggledtosingthe
songthatwasyourgift,althoughinalandofbarbarianswhopraisedyoufor
yourbewilderedtongue. It isnotsomuchwhatyousang, as thatyoukept
alive,insomanyofourancestors,the notion of song.
Blackwomenarecalled,inthefolklorethatsoaptlyidentifiesone'sstatusin
society, "themule oftheworld," becausewe have beenhandedtheburdens
thateveryoneelse-everyone else-refusedtocarry. Wehavealsobeencalled
"Matriarchs,""Superwomen,"and"MeanandEvilBitches." Nottomention
"Castraters"and"Sapphire'sMama."Whenwehavepleadedforunderstand-
ing,ourcharacterhasbeendistorted;whenwehaveaskedforSimplecaring,
we have been handed empty inspirational appellations, then stuck in the
farthestcomer.Whenwe haveaskedfor love,wehavebeengivenchildren.
Inshort, even our plainer gifts, our labors offidelity and love, have been
knockeddownourthroats. To be anartistandablackwoman, eventoday,
lowersourstatusinmanyrespects, ratherthanraises itandyet,artistswe
willbe.
Thereforewemustfearlesslypulloutofourselvesandlookatandidentify
withourlivesthelivingcreativitysomeofourgreat-grandmotherswerenot
allowed to know. I stress some ofthem because it is well known that the
406 Alice Walker
majority of our great-grandmothers knew, even without "knowing" it, the
reality of their spirituality, even if they didn't recognize it beyond what
happened in the singing at church-and they never had any intention of
giving it up.
How they did it-those millions of black women who were not Phillis
Wheatley, or Lucy Terry or Frances Harper or Zora Hurston or Nella Larsen
or Bessie Smith; or Elizabeth Catlett, or Katherine Dunham, either-brings
me to the title of this essay, "In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens," which is a
personal account that is yet shared, in its theme and its meaning, by all of us.
I found, while thinking about the far-reaching world of the creative black
woman, that often the truest answer to a question that really matters can be
found very close.
In the late 1920S my mother ran away from home to marry my father. Mar-
riage, if not running away, was expected of seventeen-year-old girls. By the --
time she was twenty, she had two children and was pregnant with a third.
Five children later, I was born. And this is how I came to know my mother:
she seemed a large, soft, loving-eyed woman who was rarely impatient in our
home. Her quick, violent temper was on view only a few times a year, when
she battled with the white landlord who had the misfortune to suggest to her
that her children did not need to go to school.
She made all the clothes we wore, even my brothers' overalls. She made all
the towels and sheets we used. She spent the summers canning vegetables
and fruits. She spent the winter evenings making quilts enough to cover all
our beds.
During the "working" day, she labored beside-not behind-my father in
the fields. Her day began before sunup, and did not end until late at night.
There was never a moment for her to sit down, undisturbed, to unravel her
own private thoughts; never a time free from interruption-by work or the
noisy inquiries of her many children. And yet, it is to my mother-and all our
mothers who were not famous-that I went in search of the secret of what
has fed that muzzled and often mutilated, but vibrant, creative spirit that the
black woman has inherited, and that pops out in wild and unlikely places to
this day.
But when, you will ask, did my overworked mother have time to know or
care about feeding the creative spirit?
The answer is so Simple that many of us have spent years discovering it. We
have constantly looked high, when we should have looked high-and low.
In Se,
For example: in the Smithsonian Instit
hangs a quilt unlike any other in the wo
simple and identifiable figures, it portrays
considered rare, beyond price. Though it f
,'makIng, and though it is made of bits a
obviously the work of a person of powerf
feeling. Below this quilt I saw a note that s.
Black woman in Alabama, a hundred yean
If we could locate this "anonymous" 1
would tum out to be one of our grandmo
in the only materials she could afford, anc
in society allowed her to use.
As Virginia Woolf wrote further, in A Ro
Yet genius of a sort must have existed an
isted among the working class. [Chang,
and daughters of sharecroppers."] Now
Robert Bums [change this to "a Zora
blazes out and proves its presence. But,
paper. When, however, one reads of a VI
possessed by devils [or "Sainthood"],
[our root workers], or even a very rem,
then I think we are on the track of a los
some mute and ingloriOUS Jane Austen.
guess that Anon, who wrote so many pc
often a woman. . . .
And so our mothers and grandmothers
mously, handed on the creative spark, the
never hoped to see: or like a sealed letter t
And so it is, certainly, with my own me
which retained their creator's name even
Smith's mouth, no song or poem will bear
the stories that I write, that we all wril
recently did I fully realize this: that throug
stories of her life, I have absorbed not
something of the manner in which she spe
involves the knowledge that her stories-L
probably for this reason that so much of w
ters whose counterparts in real life are so ]
I
~ I
~ . . .
In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens 407
1
,
I
lers knew, even,without "knowing" it, the
if they didn't recognize it beyond what
rch-and they never had any intention of
s of black women who were not Phillis
esHarperorloraHurstonorNellaLarsen
lett, orKatherineDunham,either-brings
:archofOurMothers'Gardens,"whichisa
:l,initsthemeanditsmeaning,byallofus.
,e far-reaching world ofthe creative black
ver to aquestionthatreallymatterscanbe
lway from horne to marrymyfather. Mar-
(pectedofseventeen-year-oldgirls. By the
) childrenandwas pregnantwitha third.
Idthisis howIcarne to knowmymother:
edwomanwhowasrarelyimpatientinOur
wasonviewonlyafew timesayear,when
:lwhohadthemisfortunetosuggesttoher
~ o toschool.
'e, evenmybrothers'overalls.Shemadeall
J.e spentthe summers canningvegetables
venings makingquiltsenoughto coverall
laboredbeside-notbehind-myfatherin
unup, anddidnotenduntillateatnight.
r tositdown, undisturbed, to unravelher
le free from interruption-byworkorthe
:n.Andyet,itis tomymother-andallour
hat Iwentinsearch ofthe secretofwhat
tilated,butvibrant,creativespiritthatthe
tatpopsoutinwildandunlikelyplacesto
Jverworkedmotherhavetimeto knowor
it?
ty of us have spent years discovering it.We
Iweshouldhavelookedhigh-andlow.
For example: in the Smithsonian InstitutioninWashington, D.C., there
hangs a quilt unlike any otherin the world. In fanciful, inspired, andyet
simpleandidentifiable figures, itportraysthestoryofthe Crucifixion. Itis
consideredrare,beyondprice.Thoughitfollowsnoknownpatternofquilt-
making, and though it is made ofbits and pieces ofworthless rags, it is
obviouslythe workofaperson ofpowerfulimaginationanddeep spiritual
feeling. BelowthisquiltIsawanotethatsaysitwasmadeby"ananonymous
BlackwomaninAlabama,ahundredyearsago."
Ifwe could locate this "anonymous" black woman from Alabama, she
wouldturnoutto be oneofourgrandmothers-anartistwholefthermark
intheonlymaterialsshecouldafford, andintheonlymediumherposition
insocietyallowedhertouse.
AsVirginiaWoolfwrotefurther, inA Room of Ones Own:
Yetgeniusofasortmusthaveexistedamongwomenasitmusthaveex-
istedamongtheworkingclass. [Change this to "slaves"and"thewives
anddaughtersofsharecroppers."] NowandagainanEmilyBronteora
Robert Burns [change this to "a loraHurston or a Richard Wright"]
blazesoutandprovesitspresence.Butcertainlyitnevergotitselfonto
paper.When,however,onereadsofawitchbeingducked,ofawoman
possessed by devils [or "Sainthood"], ofa wise woman selling herbs
[ourrootworkers], orevenaveryremarkablemanwhohadamother,
thenIthinkweareonthetrackofalostnovelist,asuppressedpoet,of
somemuteandingloriousJaneAusten...:Indeed,Iwouldventureto
guessthatAnon,whowrotesomanypoemswithoutsigningthem,was
oftenawoman. . . .
Andsoourmothersandgrandmothershave, moreoftenthannotanony-
mously, handedonthecreativespark,theseedoftheflowertheythemselves
neverhopedtosee: orlikeasealedlettertheycouldnotplainlyread.
Andso itis, certainly, withmyownmother. Unlike "Ma" Rainey's songs,
which retained their creator's name even while blasting forth from Bessie
Smith'smouth,nosongorpoemwillbearmymother'sname.Yetsomanyof
the stories that I write, that we all write, are my mother's stories. Only
recentlydidIfullyrealize this: thatthroughyearsoflisteningtomymother's
stories of her life, I have absorbed not only the stories themselves, but
somethingofthemannerinwhichshespoke,somethingoftheurgencythat
involvestheknowledgethatherstories-likeherlife-mustberecorded.It is
probablyforthisreasonthatsomuchofwhatIhavewrittenisaboutcharac-
terswhosecounterpartsinreallifearesomucholderthanIam.
408 Alice Walker
But the telling of these stories, which came from my mother's lips as
naturally as breathing, was not the only way my mother showed herself as an
artist. For stories, too, were subject to being distracted, to dying without
conclusion. Dinners must be started, and cotton must be gathered before the
big rains. The artist that was and is my mother showed itself to me only after
many years. This is what I finally noticed:
Like Mem, a character in The Third Life of Grange Copeland, my mother
adorned with flowers whatever shabby house we were forced to live in. And
not just your typical straggly country stand of zinnias, either. She planted
ambitious gardens-and still does-with over fifty different varieties of plants
that bloom profusely from early March until late November. Before she left
home for the fields, she watered her flowers, chopped up the grass, and laid
out new beds. When she returned from the fields she might divide clumps of
bulbs, dig a cold pit, uproot and replant roses, or prune branches from her
taller bushes or trees-until night came and it was too dark to see.
Whatever she planted grew as if by magic, and her fame as a grower of .
flowers spread over three counties. Because of her creativity with her flow-
ers, even my memories of poverty are seen through a screen of blooms-sun-
flowers, petunias, roses, dahlias, forsythia, spirea, delphiniums, verbena ...
and on and on.
And I remember people coming to my mother's yard to be given cuttings
from her flowers; I hear again the praise showered on her because whatever
rocky soil she landed on, she turned into a garden. A garden so brilliant
with colors, so original in its design, so magnificent with life and creativ-
ity, that to this day people drive by our house in Georgia-perfect strang-
ers and imperfect strangers-and ask to stand or walk among my mother's
art.
I notice that it is only when my mother is working in her flowers that she is
radiant, almost to the point of being invisible-except as Creator: hand and
eye. She is involved in work her soul must have. Ordering the universe in the
image of her personal conception of Beauty.
Her face, as she prepares the Art that is her gift, is a legacy of respect she
leaves to me, for all that illuminates and cherishes life. She has handed down
respect for the pOSSibilities-and the will to grasp them.
For her, so hindered and intruded upon in so many ways, being an artist
has still been a daily part of her life. This ability to hold on, even in very
simple ways, is work black women have done for a very long time.
This poem is not enough, but it is something, for the woman who literally
covered the holes in our walls with sunflowers:
In Se"
They were wome
My mama's genel
Husky of voice-
Step
With fists as well
Hands
How they battere
Doors
And ironed
Starched white
Shirts
How they led
Armies
Headragged Gen
Across mined
Fields
Bobby-trapped
Kitchens
To discover bo01
Desks
A place for us
How they knew'
Must know
Without knowin
Of it
Themselves.
Guided by my heritage of a love of bea'
search of my mother's garden, I found my ,
And perhaps in Africa over two hundre
mother; perhaps she painted vivid and d
yellows and greens on the walls of her hut
Roberta Flack's-sweetly over the compo
WOve the most stunning mats or told the
village storytellers. Perhaps she was herse
ter's name is signed to the poems that we 1
Perhaps Phillis Wheatley's mother was <
Perhaps in more than Phillis Wheatle
signature made clear.
ies, which came from my mother's lips as
he only way my mother showed herself as a
bject to being distracted, to dying
rted, and cotton must be gathered before th
l is my mother showed itself to me onlyafte;
'1 noticed:
: Third Life of Grange Copeland, my mother
;habby house we were forced to live in. And
mntry stand of zinnias, either. She planted
s-with over fifty different varieties of plants
March until late November. Before she left
her flowers, chopped up the grass, and laid
d from the fields she might divide clumps of
l replant roses, or prune branches from her
t came and it was too dark to see.
s if by magic, and her fame as a grower of
es. Because of her creativity with her flow-
'1 are seen through a screen of blooms-sun_
forsythia, spirea, delphiniums, verbena ...
Ig to my mother's yard to be given cuttings
praise showered on her because whatever
Imed into a garden. A garden so brilliant
sign, so magnificent with life and creativ-
by our house in Georgia-perfect strang-
I ask to stand or walk among my mothers
mother is working in her flowers that she is
ing invisible-except as Creator: hand and
Jul must have. Ordering the universe in the
of Beauty.
rt that is her gift, is a legacy of respect she
es and cherishes life. She has handed down
the will to grasp them.
jed upon in so many ways, being an artist
life. This ability to hold on, even in very
fl have done for a very long time.
is something, for the woman who literally
h sunflowers:
In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens 409
They were women then
My mama's generation
Husky of voice-Stout of
Step
With fists as well as
Hands
How they battered down
Doors
And ironed
Starched white
Shirts
How they led
Armies
Headragged Generals
Across mined
Fields
Bobby-trapped
Kitchens
To discover books
Desks
A place for us
How they knew what we
Must know
Without knowing a page
Of it
Themselves.
Guided by my heritage of a love of beauty and a respect for strength-in
search of my mother's garden, I found my own.
And perhaps in Africa over two hundred years ago, there was just such a
mother; perhaps she painted vivid and daring decorations in oranges and
yellows and greens on the walls of her hut; perhaps she sang-in a voice like
Roberta Flack's-sweetly over the compounds of her village; perhaps she
wove the most stunning mats or told the most ingenious stories of all the
village storytellers. Perhaps she was herself a poet-though only her daugh-
ter's name is Signed to the poems that we know.
Perhaps Phillis Wheatley's mother was also an artist.
Perhaps in more than Phillis Wheatley's biological life is her mother's
signature made clear.