TRANSCRIPT

I’m Major Jackson, and this is The Slowdown.

A treasured photograph hangs on the wall in the TV room: my grandfather Major Gooch standing outdoors with members of his army troop, the 113th Quartermaster Regiment. They were an all-black unit in the second World War. Major stands on the top row, rigid in posture. The photo is sepia toned and still in its original wooden frame. Yet, I cannot tell the features of the day. Was the sun shining, the sky gray? What did the photographer say to get seven rows of men to all look in the camera’s direction? 

My other treasured photograph is of his wife, Lucille Gooch, my grandmother. The black and white picture shows her with white gloved hands clasped around her purse. She is smartly dressed in a skirt suit capped with a large women’s bowtie. A huge flower is affixed to her pillbox hat.  A slightly parted smile adorns her face. Lucille’s picture hangs in my home office, along with a few of the many photos I have inherited. Some of my ancestors I can name; many I cannot. 

If you are a regular listener of The Slowdown, you know how much Major and Lucille impacted me in the early part of my life. I look at them increasingly, as I get older, and think of the trials they faced, and the sacrifices made. I think of the era they were born, long before the Civil Rights Movement, and the social and political advances made in our society during their lifetime that are quickly deteriorating. I think of the principles that we shared as a nation, which they embodied — a full-on belief in a country where all are valued and considered equal. 

Memories of them emerge out of an inchoate past. The advice they dispensed and the laughter they wrought make them feel as relevant today as when they were alive. The quintessential moments of my life with them from long ago feel dreamlike. I question the accuracy of my memories. Someday, I will pass these pictures on to my children with hopes they, too, affix to them whatever meanings their ancestors contributed to our country. I hope they name their deeds as admirable and worthy of note, even if the world forgets, and refuses their light.

Today’s minimalist poem makes a poignant observation about the images of those who silently populate our homes, offices, museums, and walls. Their presence is our eventual destination. 

Mantle
by Kevin Young

The dead do 
      what they want
which is nothing—

sit there, mantled,
      or made real
by photographs

in silver frames, 
      or less real
by our many ministrations.

Dusting. Bleach. The world
      swept, ordered,
seemingly unending.

The dead, listless, 
      lazy, grow tired
& turn off the TV—

or like a father passed
      out in an easy chair
during the evening news

      what’s watched now
does the watching.

“Mantle” by Kevin Young. Used by permission of the poet.