Generational Grit

A picture of my great-grandmother, Mary Ella Dawson, sits on my desk as a reminder of generational grit. In the photograph, she is dressed in a suit, a brimmed hat with a big bow, and round glasses. She is not smiling; her eyes are dark and cold, yet steady and determined. Every day I am reminded that courage runs deep in my ancestral bones. I had only seen her, as well as my grandmother, Lillie, wear a house dress with hose and clunky black shoes. My grandmother had never cut her hair, wore pants, drove a car, or wore a bathing suit. Neither of them did.

Ella’s parents lived through the Civil War and the hardships of the Depression, which shaped her resilience and grit. I remember sitting crossed-legged at her feet, mesmerized as she told story after story. She rolled snuff in her mouth and spat it into a rust-stained, worn coffee can. I can hear the sound the can made when it reached the floor, the smell of the tobacco lingering in the air. I paid close attention as she reached for another round, rolling it in her fingers and placing it in her mouth. It was disgusting and intriguing. She had a wonderful sense of humor, one that made me laugh, a gift she passed down to my grandmother, and then to me. I inherited her sense of humor and her ability to weave a story, which has shaped the storyteller I have become.

She lived to be 93, 22 years past the death of her husband in 1934. I was just 11 when she died. She had lived long enough to witness five generations in one polaroid picture: She joined her daughter, Lillie; her granddaughter, Betty; her grandson, Landis; and his daughter, Becky. My last vivid memory is visiting her as she lay lifeless in her coffin, displayed in the living room of her house in Carrboro, North Carolina - a Southern ritual that fascinated, frightened, and intrigued me all at once. I remember standing on my tiptoes over her coffin, touching her cold and wrinkled hands, thanking her for the stories, and saying goodbye for the last time.

Ella’s life, her grit, her humor, and her steadfastness remind me daily of the strength in my bloodline. She was a woman shaped by the resilience of generations before her, and her legacy of courage, strength, storytelling, and humor continues to live through me.

As I look at her picture every day, I am reminded: Ancestral grit runs through my veins and I can do hard things.