Author: Alice Faye Duncan

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Opinion The Last Word

Say ‘Thank You’

A young Alice always looked forward to postcards from Mama ’Cile. (Photo: Courtesy Alice Faye Duncan)

Dear friend, I am writing to you from my native city and home, Memphis, Tennessee. It is an easy Sunday morning complete with blue skies and sunshine. The temperature is a balmy 70 degrees. Will it remain easy? Not sure. As I write, the U.S. presidential election is two days away. To stay hopeful in this season of rampant misinformation and uncivilized politics, my steady focus is on “thanks-giving.” Despite the rising cost of food and the outcome of the election, I trust that Americans who believe in democracy will still rise up this November to prepare joyful fellowships of feasting for family, friends, and the unhoused. No matter who wins on November 5th, I am believing that no one will steal or kill our spirt of gratitude for what remains good, generous, and kind. Remember the marching activists during the American Civil Rights Movement? They sang, “Ain’t gonna let nobody turn me around!” This must be our battle cry. In our homes and on the job, we must vow to be active expressions of gratefulness, even if we stand alone doing so.   

When I was a small child, I saw the power of gratitude modeled in the life of my godmother, Lucile Brazil Thompson, a valued employee at the local Buckman Laboratories. Whenever I gave Mama ’Cile a gift, she would mail a thank you note that was stamped and addressed to me. It was exciting to receive her travel postcards and thank-you notes because mail in my name made me feel grown and her words of gratitude made me feel appreciated. I loved to share gifts with Mama ’Cile because ultimately, I received the gift of a thank you note. 

Before I could spell well or write cursive letters, my mother Earline Duncan made me compose handwritten thank you cards when I received personal gifts. As a small child, I enjoyed receiving the cards, but I did not enjoy writing them. I would cry loudly, “Mama! I wanna use the telephone.” 

A quick call on one of those big black rotary phones did not suit my godmother’s standard of decorum and a phone call was not Earline Duncan’s favorite expression of gratitude, either. My mother would scold me and say, “When somebody takes precious time to buy you a gift, you should take precious time to write them a note.” I would grumble and push through the task, making sure to write complete sentences in my large block letters.

Composing personalized thank-you notes with gel pens and USPS Black Heritage Stamps is now a lifelong habit for me. No gift exchange is complete on my part until I have formally expressed my gratitude with a card and postage stamp. She is dead now but to my mother’s point, when a person spends money or time to offer me a kindness, I think it is good manners to reciprocate the sacrifice and serve them joy with a written acknowledgement that is more engaging and lasting than a quick text, phone call, or silence. 

In the tradition of Mama ’Cile and Earline Duncan, I encourage people to purchase greeting cards and postage before they need them. Keep a stash of stationery and stamps on deck especially during the winter holidays when there is a constant surge of giving and receiving gifts. In this way, you will be poised to make your thankful expressions promptly. The challenge to stop your routine and go buy stamps or cards will not exist. 

This idea of gratitude brings me back to the election. By the time you receive this missive from me, America will have a new president. And most likely, you will be planning your Thanksgiving gathering or attending one. Despite the election outcome, think about the good in life that remains and allow thoughts of gratitude to fill your heart with hope. 

Gratitude, like love, requires action. Therefore, make expressions of “thanks-giving” a constant part of your days. Refuse silence, discouragement, and giving-up. Acknowledge your blessings in thoughts, words, and deeds. Gratitude elevates the mood. It is a winning attitude. Say thank you. 

Alice Faye Duncan writes for children. She is the author of fourteen books including I Gotta Sing and Yellow Dog Blues. She will sign books Saturday, November 30th, at the Butterific Bakery & Café. Her website alicefayeduncan.com.

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Opinion The Last Word

The Making of Willye White — U.S. Olympian

Alice Faye Duncan (Photo: Erica Dunlap)

I made a great discovery during the summer of 2015. While driving through the Mississippi Delta, a sign welcomed me to Greenwood, “Home of 5-Time Olympian, Willye B. White.” Who? I did a Google search. Willye B. White was a Black girl born with fast feet like Hermes. Running from work in cotton fields, she raced in international track competitions from 1956 to 1972. 

I was teaching school. There was no time to research Willye’s life. But in 2020, the pandemic shuttered school, and in the quietness, I remembered Willye White and that welcome sign. The pandemic made space for me to document the achievements of this U.S. Olympian — Black, female, poor, and significant to Tennessee history. My research began on the phone. Former Olympic swimmer Donna de Varona encouraged me to contact Pat Connolly. Connolly and White called themselves “soul sisters.” Connolly is a retired pentathlete and coach who trained U.S. Olympians Evelyn Ashford and Allyson Felix. She put me in contact with former Olympian and Tennessee State University (TSU) track star, Ralph Boston. My uncle, Hugh Strong, connected me with former Olympian, TSU Tigerbelle, and Memphis educator Margaret Wilburn. 

Boston and Wilburn ran with White at TSU. They remembered her to be a resilient athlete and charismatic talker who was called “Mississippi Red” because of her ginger hair. Interviews served me a three-dimensional view of Willye. She was a runner, world traveler, and wise woman, quick with sage observations. For instance, when it came to brutal challenges on the track and in the crucible of the Jim Crow South, she said, “People are always trying to take away my smile, but it’s mine, and they can’t have it.” 

After speaking with Willye’s friends, I wrote the first biography about one of the greatest U.S. Olympians to go uncelebrated in the history books. With palpable excitement, as we approach the 2024 Summer Olympics, the amplification of Willye’s valor begins with me. 

Willye White was the first American to compete for 20 consecutive years during five Olympic Games in track and field. She sprinted and jumped as a member of 39 U.S. international teams, including the first team to visit the Soviet Union in 1958 and first team to visit China in 1975. She set seven world records. And for nearly two decades, Willye was the best female long jumper in the nation with a career high of 21 feet, 6 inches. White’s maternal grandparents, Louis and Edna Brown, were unskilled laborers who raised her up in Greenwood. They inspired her love for learning. Despite Willye’s reading challenges, she graduated high school in 1959. She graduated Chicago State University in 1976. When she was in fifth grade, her older cousin Vee invited Willye to try out for her high school track team. Willye made the team and sports fueled her self-confidence. She said, “Athletics were my freedom. Freedom from ignorance, freedom from segregation.” 

Olympians trained without corporate sponsorship in Willye’s day. So she supported herself working full-time in a Chicago hospital, while training before and after work. Her passion for track was a free ticket to see the world. At 16 years old, in 1956, she participated in her first Olympic Games and won a silver medal in the women’s long jump. She was the first American woman to medal in this event. Willye lived in Greenwood but trained during the summers in Nashville, Tennessee, with Ed Temple, the women’s track coach at TSU. Training in Nashville was her escape from picking cotton. And upon high school graduation in 1959, Willye joined Ed Temple’s TSU Tigerbelles as a freshman. Olympic gold medalist Wilma Rudolph was her Tigerbelle teammate and friend.

It was Coach Temple who nicknamed Willye White “Mississippi Red.” When Red started socializing off campus and missing curfew, Temple canceled her scholarship. She withdrew from TSU in 1960 and moved to Chicago. Temple met Willye again in the summer of 1960 and 1964 when he coached the U.S. Women’s Olympic track teams in Rome and Tokyo. The two mended their differences, and during the 1964 Games, he added her to the 4×100-meter relay race. With Wyomia Tyus, Edith McGuire, and Marilyn White, she won her second silver medal for the USA. 

Willye established her track career during the turbulent years of the Civil Rights Movement. While Dr. King marched in street protests, Willye contributed to Black progress on the track with muscle and might. At the end of her track career in 1972, she served as a Chicago city administrator. She also coached student athletes. Willye’s winning mantra was, “If it is to be, it is up to me, because I believe in me!” 

Mississippi Red died in 2007 from pancreatic cancer. The city of Chicago named an athletic complex in her honor. You can visit the Willye B. White Park at 1610 W. Howard Street, Chicago, Illinois. 

Alice Faye Duncan is the official biographer for U.S. Olympian and TSU Tigerbelle, Willye B. White. Traveling Shoes is the story of Willye’s grace and grit. You can find more books from the author at alicefayeduncan.com.

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Opinion The Last Word

Lessons From Grandmother Opal Lee

Grandmother Opal Lee (Photo: Courtesy Dione Sims)

There are lessons to learn from Grandmother Opal Lee. With her silver crown of curls, she is a Black Texas Rose endowed with vision and courage at the age of 97. From 2016 to 2021, Grandmother Opal traveled countless times from her Fort Worth home to Washington, D.C. Her mission was to encourage politicians to make Juneteenth a national holiday. Grandmother Opal also led annual walks across America’s highways, collecting almost two million signatures for her Juneteenth petition. She waged a tireless pursuit in her ubiquitous canvas sneakers.

Dreams do come true. President Biden signed a law making June 19th a federal holiday in 2021. Juneteenth, as it is called, commemorates June 19, 1865, when Union soldiers brought the news of freedom to the enslaved in Texas, two years and six months after the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation.

The 13th Amendment abolished Black servitude. However, Juneteenth is the touchstone that represents the end of slavery in the collective American mind. People around the globe call Opal Lee the “Grandmother of Juneteenth.” On May 3rd of this year, President Biden awarded her the Presidential Medal of Freedom, as she is a symbol of dignity, goodwill, and liberation. The medal is the nation’s highest civilian honor.

I went on a journey to write Opal Lee’s picture book biography for children during the summer of 2020 after the George Floyd murder. We had a lively conversation in December of that year. When our talk ended, I understood with clarity why Juneteenth is a celebration for every American. It is not a “Black holiday.” It is an American holiday. And to that point, here are five lessons that I learned from Opal Lee — the esteemed Grandmother of Juneteenth.

Grandmother Opal said, “Juneteenth is a time for reflection.” Just as for Black Texas families in 1866 at the first Juneteenth anniversary in Galveston, the day remains an occasion to remember our collective past and express gratitude for the tribulations survived. It is also a time to honor Black history-makers and freedom fighters, whose courage paved a road to this present day. When speaking of roots, Grandmother Opal said it was her maternal grandfather who gave her a love for history and the preservation of family ties. His name was Zack Broadous. Born in 1871, he was a Texarkana farmer, landowner, and preacher. Juneteenth is a time we can all reflect on our specific ancestors who believed in the liberation of the mind, body, and spirit.

Beyond ancestral meditations, Grandmother Opal acknowledged the loud rejoicing that surely rang across Texas in 1865 after Black generations had survived more than 200 years on the auction block. As the holiday inspires images of such overwhelming joy, Opal Lee taught me a second lesson. She said, “Juneteenth is a day of music and praise.” Since Glynn Johns Reed’s inaugural Memphis Juneteenth celebration in 1993, each year the Memphis Douglass Park is found teeming with African drumming, local bands, and gospel singers who make the Juneteenth holiday a jubilant Memphis affair. There is no Juneteenth celebration without music. And as I spoke with Opal Lee about Memphis music and our Juneteenth traditions, she quipped, “Twerking is for young people. I do the holy dance!”

During our talk, I asked about food traditions. Grandmother Opal replied, “Juneteenth is a jamboree of feasting and fellowship.” From the first Juneteenth celebration in Galveston until now, many Juneteenth hosts prepare vibrant red foods that Black Americans were denied during servitude. Juneteenth guests might feast on tangy ribs, strawberry pie, and Big Red Soda that is bottled in Waco, Texas. In this new age with various dietary options, Juneteenth tables are also decked in vegan and vegetarian victuals, fancy tarts, and craft mocktails.

When questioned about her ability to form coalitions toward making Juneteenth a national holiday, Grandmother Opal said a wise elder gave her an example in building friendships beyond her neighborhood. That mentor was the late Lenora Rolla, a historian who founded the Tarrant County Black Historical & Genealogical Society. As we spoke about the impact of mentorships, Opal Lee served me a fourth lesson. She said, “Juneteenth is a time for listening to the elders.” Wherever she travels, Grandmother Opal welcomes children. She speaks with them and reads to them in schools, at public libraries, and at Juneteenth celebrations. “If we want the world to survive, healthy and whole,” she said, “we must take time for children. Listen to them.”

I asked one last question. What do people misunderstand about the Juneteenth holiday? Opal Lee taught me a fifth lesson: “No matter who you are, Juneteenth is a unifier that represents freedom.”

These final words served as my guidepost. Immediately, I knew what I would write for children about Opal Lee and the Juneteenth holiday. Hear me with your heart: Juneteenth is bigger than Texas, singing, or dancing bands. Juneteenth is freedom rising, and freedom is for everyone. Juneteenth is for you and me!

Alice Faye Duncan is a Memphis teacher who writes for children. Her Juneteenth book, Opal Lee and What It Means to Be Free, has sold 95,000 copies since 2022. Her new barnyard blues story, I Gotta Sing, is available now wherever books are sold. She can be reached at alicefayeduncan.com.

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Opinion The Last Word

Who Is Coretta Scott King?

Plenty of history books magnify the mission of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. He was an American champion for the marginalized. While I celebrate his birth each January — and join in remembrance on the anniversary of his April assassination — allow me to shout from the rooftop that the historical impact of his wife, Coretta Scott King, goes largely uncelebrated. As a writer devoted to researching the Civil Rights Movement, I consider America’s lackluster regard for Coretta to be a crying shame.

Coretta’s legacy of social action and promotion of peace deserves to be widely extolled in books and the naming of schools and streets. Without her fortitude, it is likely Dr. King would not have reached his full stature as a civil rights leader. It is also likely that without Coretta’s tireless campaign to establish the King holiday, national and international deference to Martin’s name would be less prominent and shining. If this sounds like an exaggerated assertion, think again.

In 1956 when Dr. King denounced segregation and was a voice for nonviolent protests during the Montgomery Bus Boycott, white segregationists bombed the parsonage where the Kings lived with their firstborn child, Yolanda. While Martin was leading an evening strategy meeting, Coretta and their 10-week-old baby were home when the explosion blasted the front porch to pieces and blew a hole in the living room wall.

No one was injured, but the explosion was a sure reason for Coretta to quit the protest and leave Montgomery for safety. Coretta’s parents, Obadiah and Bernice Scott, lived in Heiberger, Alabama, 80 miles west of Montgomery. Mr. Scott drove to the parsonage expecting to carry his daughter away from danger. Coretta told him, “I am going to stay here with Martin.”

Montgomery was not Coretta’s first encounter with racial terror. When she was a teenager, segregationists set the Scotts’ house on fire. Mr. Scott raised pine timber on the family’s 300 acres. It was the mob’s intention to break his entrepreneurial spirit, but smoldering embers did not make him flinch. He built a new home. Years later, he purchased a lumber mill and segregationists also burned it to ashes.

With faith in a power greater than himself, Coretta’s father stood steadfast in Heiberger to, finally, open a thriving grocery store that served all citizens in Perry County. Just like the song, Obadiah Scott wouldn’t let “nobody” turn him around. He was Coretta’s model of courage. And during the Montgomery bombing, Coretta followed his example. Like her father, she stood unflinching in the face of fire. Coretta then went on to march beside Martin during the Civil Rights Movement from its early days in 1956, until her husband’s assassination on April 4, 1968.

Imagine the outcome if Coretta had abandoned Martin and the movement in Montgomery. If she had fainted in the face of fire, would anyone blame Martin for leaving Montgomery to save his marriage? Absolutely not. But the inward call to pursue freedom in Jim Crow America also weighed heavily in Coretta’s soul. Therefore, Martin never had to choose his family over the movement. And privately, when Martin wanted Coretta to adjourn movement work and be content with motherhood, she reminded him, “I have a call on my life, too.”

During their 13 years marching in the name of civil rights, Martin suffered violence, death threats, and constant trumped-up jail charges. It was Coretta’s disdain for tears, her unwavering words of encouragement, and midnight prayers that helped her husband stay the course. Martin called her “Corrie,” his “brave soldier.”

Few Americans understand the impact of Coretta’s warrior spirit because history books do not adequately explore her life as an activist, leader, and prophetic voice of liberation. Magazines from the ’60s overlooked the bravery in Martin’s warrior woman. Photojournalists rendered her portrait in elegant, unchallenging tones. And from patriarchal pulpits after Dr. King’s murder in Memphis, Black preachers encouraged Coretta to stay pretty and silent, while they jockeyed for positions that once belonged to Martin.

Black male leaders of the movement did not grasp that Coretta was the seed of Obadiah Scott. Burnished by fire, she was incapable of reducing her light. Coretta Scott King followed her own mind. And after Martin’s death, for the next 15 years, she used her voice to promote principles of nonviolence as she rallied the nation to establish a federal holiday to honor Dr. King, a drum major for peace.

As for Martin, Coretta, and the mystery of love, some people believe that marriage is a divine union where two hearts become “one flesh.” If that is true, let me propose a new tradition. Whenever you remember and celebrate the name of Dr. King for his efforts in human rights, be sure to praise and amplify that fated love, who wielded courage to walk as one with him. Her name was Coretta Scott King. She was born April 27, 1927. Martin called her, “Corrie.” She was a woman, wife, and warrior on the battlefield for freedom.

Alice Faye Duncan is a Memphis educator and the author of Coretta’s Journey; Memphis, Martin, and the Mountaintop; and Yellow Dog Blues, a NYT/NPL Best Illustrated Book selection in 2022. Visit her at alicefayeduncan.com.

*This piece was originally printed in the Dallas Morning News.

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Opinion The Last Word

Dream Big — The Earnestine Robinson Story

Earnestine Rodgers Robinson (Photo: Courtesy Todd Robinson)

There are many ways to communicate a message of great passion and thought. Preachers and politicians speak from pulpits and podiums. Poets wrestle words to a page. Painters wield brushes dipped in acrylics. Dancers jook and jump. Musicians sing and play musical instruments.

Born in 1938, Earnestine Rodgers Robinson is a Memphis artist, gifted with a mysterious mode of “speaking.” She has never studied music or learned to play an instrument. And yet, in the tradition of Handel’s Messiah, Earnestine Robinson composes oratorios steeped in Old and New Testament Bible stories. Her musical compositions, the Nativity, the Crucifixion, and Exodus have been performed in Carnegie Hall and across international waters in Prague. How did music arrive at her command without instruction? Some degree of an answer begins with her parents. Rev. James Rodgers was a pastor and self-taught contractor with a keen ability to read blueprints and build houses. His wife, Euber, was a skilled cook and the mother of his 11 children. Earnestine was the fifth child. Five is the number of grace.

The Rodgers were a Black family of conquering fortitude. They had arrived in Memphis from Arkansas while seeking refuge from the Great Flood of 1937. A few years later, when Earnestine was a toddler, a stomach ailment almost killed the listless child. But God gave a prophetic word to her wise Aunt Ruth. She told James and Euber that Earnestine would survive the sickness because God had plans to use her life in a mighty way. As Earnestine traversed the various stages of childhood to graduate valedictorian from Douglass High School in 1956, the prophecy on her life never left her memory.

When Earnestine was an undergraduate at Fisk University, her father died. Relatives convinced her to leave college and seek employment. Unhappy with the segregated South, she moved to Chicago and trained to become a medical photographer. While in Chicago, she fell in love with Charles Robinson, a Black accountant and pianist. Charles and his casual tinkering included piano riffs from Rachmaninoff. Earnestine told him of a reoccurring dream. She often saw herself playing piano. Maybe the frequent dream was a wink to love on the horizon because Earnestine married Charles. They moved to Memphis in the late ’60s and were blessed with five children: Todd, Cheryle, Craig, Michelle, and Gaius.

When 1972 arrived, Earnestine and Charles settled into a new house in the Memphis community called Cherokee. With the arrival of spring flowers, Flora Rodgers asked Earnestine to organize an Easter program for church. Flora’s husband, Jonathan, was not only the pastor, he was Earnie’s brother. So, sister went right to work! However, when Earnestine could not find a proper Easter play in local bookstores, she was forced to write the narrative herself. As for music, a miracle happened. While seated alone in her bedroom preparing for a church rehearsal, Earnestine opened her mouth to read Bible verses John 3:16-17. The first verse poured from her in the flourish of a symphonic melody. When she tried to read the second verse aloud, the spoken words hurtled through the air in the spirit of a sacred song. She told a news reporter once, “I was singing the scripture and it was not of my own volition.”

The mysterious unfolding of melodies rendered her speechless. A church pianist advised her to follow the music saying, “If God has given you two verses, surely he can give you a whole song.” She agreed. And for the past 40 years, Earnestine has turned her ear toward Heaven. She uses mathematical symbols to convey the feeling of the music. Then she hires a musician to translate her symbols into a symphonic score. While her work has been featured before crowds in New York, Chicago, and Europe, no Memphis orchestra has ever performed Earnestine Robinson’s music until this year. This weekend, the Memphis Symphony Orchestra with the National Civil Rights Museum will debut Earnestine Robinson’s Harriet Tubman at the Cannon Center. The three-part oratorio explores Harriet Tubman’s birth into slavery, her journey on the Underground Railroad, and her joy and celebration of freedom in the aftermath of slavery.

Years ago, when Earnestine and her husband visited Memphis churches, colleges, and concert halls encouraging the local community to feature her work, doors were slammed in their faces. She asked God to explain the rejection and in the stillness of that moment she heard God say, “Your vision is too small.” It was then that Earnestine began to dream big. She prayed for national and international stages. This seed of faith reaped a great harvest as her music has now been featured at Carnegie Hall, numerous times.

Carnegie conductor, Jonathan Griffith, once explained the soul of Robinson’s music. He told her, “Your use of repetition gives it a gospel feel. … Your harmonies and rhythms are more like jazz. And somehow, you bring it all together under a classical format.”

Get ready for Earnestine Robinson’s world debut of the Harriet Tubman oratorio. Experience her BIG DREAM in BIG MEMPHIS at the Cannon Center on February 11th.

Alice Faye Duncan is the author of Coretta’s Journey, Traveling Shoes, and Memphis, Martin, and the Mountaintop. She can be reached at alicefayeduncan.com. Purchase Harriet Tubman tickets online from the NCRM at civilrightsmuseum.org.

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Opinion The Last Word

I Am Somebody

Children will be what they see. So, be mindful of your daily habits because they etch memories on the soul of a child. And as children grow up, good or bad, your influence frames the template for their future.  

I was born in South Memphis on Wellington Street between South Parkway and Essex Avenue. The year was 1967. It was a Black neighborhood composed of working people. Like my father, the men taught school. They drove trucks or worked as janitors, factory laborers, and preachers. The women worked as teachers like my mother or served as social workers, nurses, maids, and cooks. Court-mandated integration was in motion, so a few parents on the block also worked government jobs that were once exclusive to white employees.   

Photo: Courtesy Alice Faye Duncan

When I stop to consider their influence, I know that my Black neighbors laid a sturdy foundation for my personhood. Besides manicured lawns, starched collars, and a determination to succeed, they modeled compassion, courage, and conviction that contributed directly to my writing life. In South Memphis, I lived surrounded by history makers and champions for justice. 

ROLL CALL! Attorney George Brown lived on my street. He served as the first Black judge on the Tennessee Supreme Court. Bishop J.O. Patterson Jr. lived two doors from my house. He was one of three Black members elected to the first Memphis City Council. As a council member, Patterson helped to negotiate an end to the Memphis sanitation strike of 1968. 

My friend, Big Mane, lived across the street. Ed Redditt was his father, and he worked as a detective for the local police department. On the day that Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was murdered during the strike, it had been Officer Redditt’s job to keep watch over King when the leader visited Memphis to support the garbage workers. 

As an only child who was encouraged to speak at the dinner table, I had parents who were both big readers and talkers. Frequently, they discussed the history and impact of the neighbors on our street. I listened with great interest as my parents shaped me into a small image of themselves. Unfortunately, my loquacious qualities did not translate well in school. My first-grade teacher complained that I talked too much. 

While South Memphis was my world on Monday through Saturday, the landscape changed on Sunday mornings. Mama would dress me up in Sunday clothes. And while Daddy usually stayed home to sleep, Mama drove to North Memphis in her sputtering yellow Beetle, where we worshiped with Black parishioners at St. James AME Church. Our pastor, Henry Logan Starks, was tall like a tree. He wore an Afro and taught Black History from the pulpit. 

My mother held Pastor Starks in the highest regard because he inspired the congregation to pay rent and light bills for striking sanitation workers in 1968. Pastor Starks also marched with the striking workers. He helped them strategize to earn higher pay and safe work conditions. When Dr. King was almost killed during the Beale Street riot on March 28, 1968, it was Pastor Starks who selflessly towered over Martin like a human shield.

My parents sang the praises of Pastor Starks. They taught me to honor the brave history makers that peopled my neighborhood and the Black Memphis community at large. However, Henry Starks’ influence has been the most personal. As a champion for nonviolence and the uplift of children, he practiced the power of affirmations. At the end of every church service, small children would run like cattle for the vestibule to shake the pastor’s hand and hear him declare, “YOU ARE SOMEBODY!” 

Thirty to 40 children stood in line every Sunday. Henry Starks never turned to leave until he shook each hand, raised a peace sign, and blessed each child with an affirmation. 

YOU ARE SOMEBODY!   

I am 56 years old. I write books about Memphis and Black history. My parents served me a template for this life. Now I celebrate what was honored in my home. I celebrate what was honored in my church. And while I don’t remember the sound of my pastor’s voice, I remember how Henry Starks made me feel. He was a light on my path and I believed his sacred words.   

I AM SOMEBODY! 

Alice Faye Duncan writes award-winning books for children. She is the author of Memphis, Martin and the Mountaintop; Coretta’s Journey; and Evicted—the Struggle for the Right to Vote. Visit her at alicefayeduncan.com.

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Opinion The Last Word

Be the Light

Alice Faye Duncan (Photo: Erica Dunlap)

Happy Holidays from Memphis! I don’t need a calendar to remind me of the season. On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, my neighbor, Mrs. Anderson, trims her yellow house in countless lights. When her home on the hill twinkles like a galaxy of stars, that is my cue. Christmas is near.

Mrs. Anderson started her tradition of dazzling decorations more than 30 years ago when her two children were arm babies. Over time, not only did she hang lights on her ranch-style home, but her lawn shined at night with a full display of Santa in his sleigh, eight reindeer, and a six-foot snowman, waving at passing cars. The first sign of Mrs. Anderson’s holiday whimsy would motivate neighbors up and down the street to follow her lead. Mothers and fathers would take to their yards to decorate their houses with an assortment of plastic snowflakes, candy canes, and silver bells, with shrubbery wrapped in endless strings of colorful lights. As more neighbors joined Mrs. Anderson’s grand display of decorations, the magic attracted a constant trail of visitors. Cars filled with families would crawl slowly along the street to marvel at winter’s wonderment.

It was a good run. With Mrs. Anderson leading the charge, my neighbors in the southwest corner of Memphis served multitudes, marvelous visions of holiday cheer for three decades. But the saying is true. “Nothing good lasts forever.” When her inflatable snowman burst at the seams, Mrs. Anderson pulled back on her Christmas designs. Then Santa and his deer were swiftly disposed.

I asked, “What happened?” Mrs. Anderson said the winter winds had a habit of toppling the reindeer. And after she reached a “certain age,” she was not willing to wrestle the weighty decorations back to their feet. She replied, “They had to go.”

That was just the beginning. Amid the dearth and death of Covid-19, I noticed that a great number of my neighbors did not follow in Mrs. Anderson’s steps during Christmas 2020. While she had ditched Santa and his crew, her house on the hill still shined with big red ribbons and dazzling lights. Sadly, Mrs. Anderson’s holiday mojo did not move the neighbors. Few joined her Christmas whimsy that year.

I remember that quiet Christmas very well. Dull porch lights were the status quo in my neighborhood. Here and there, I saw a wreath or two, garland, bells, a few straggly lights, and one baby Jesus in a faded manger. That year, no cars filled with giddy children had any reason to visit my community. As for me and my personal celebrations? My jolly Black Santa figurine, cheap laser lights, and three-foot tree remained boxed-up for Christmas ’20, ’21, and ’22. The isolation and alienation of the pandemic had robbed many of us of our collective merriment. Inflation and national unrest buoyed our blues and put many Americans in a holiday funk. But not Mrs. Anderson. While there is breath in her being, I don’t think my neighbor would ever cancel Christmas in her yellow house on the hill. And for that, I am privileged to be her friend. We need people in our circle who show us how to persist in joy and celebration when the world turns turbulent, grave, or “grinchy.”

This year, on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, I passed Mrs. Anderson’s home. It was early evening and the sun had set. True to form, a sparkling Christmas tree was posted in her living room window and red ribbons were wrapped around her porch lamps. In years past, Mrs. Anderson has been known to climb ladders and drape her roof and gables with bedazzling ropes of lights. But this year she abandoned rooftop lights and surrounded the base of her home in copious LED candles with pretty red flames. The candles conjured warm enchanting memories from when my neighbors would deck their shrubs in lights and give their hearts freely to the hope of the season.

God is a wonder. Mrs. Anderson’s copious candles rooted-up old, buried feelings of Christmas joy. And like the return of a favorite friend, I received those feelings with open arms. To make matters even better, it wasn’t too late for me in 2023. December had not arrived. I still had time to unbox my lights, my tree, and my jolly Black Santa. That night I called Mrs. Anderson to acknowledge her inspiring decorations.

I said, “You changed your lights!”

She told me it is not wise to climb tall ladders after a “certain age” and the Christmas candles circling the base of her home were the “safest option.”

I own an AARP card. I understood her point. But I also wondered: Does Mrs. Anderson understand? Her persistent refusal to let the world’s trouble steal her joy is a superpower. I tried to explain what I perceive to be her extraordinary fortitude.

Mrs. Anderson replied, “I hear you.” But did she? People full of light seldom see the light that we find in them. And that’s okay. Our task is to take their light and pass it on.

Alice Faye Duncan is a National Board Educator in Memphis who writes books for children. She is the author of Coretta’s Journey, This Train is Bound for Glory, and Yellow Dog Blues — a NYT/NYPL Best Illustrated Book selection in 2022. Visit alicefayeduncan.com.