As I think about the idea of roots, I ponder the question: where did it start for me? My mind wanders to people, places, smells, laughter, and family. I am not sure if my musings will make much sense, but here goes.

It started for me in Philly around my family. My earliest memories are of moving to Wynnefield when I was about 3 years old in 1967. This was my first memory of skin color as I noticed our white neighbors next door. I remember seeing our neighbors for the first time and noticing the difference. I was 3, so no big thoughts, just curiosity. Little did I know that this curiosity at 3 would become a theme in my life moving forward about the people called “white”. They would become “the white man who owns the store” “the white woman at the dry cleaners” or “the white boy at my school”. The people called “white” would begin to dominate in ways I didn’t know how to express at the time. They were teachers, store owners the insurance guy who stopped by once a month, the mayor, the police, and even the nuns at my Catholic school. The people called “white” were always in a place to direct me. This was intriguing from a young age and I suppose has a weird place in my roots.

Then there was family. My grandparents’ 3-story home on the southwest side of the city where we gathered for family dinners on every holiday and many Sundays, the atmosphere was rich and full of people and wonderful food. My uncles watched the Eagles in the fall or the Phillies in the summer while all my cousins (my mother had 9 brothers and sisters so cousins abounded) and I played outside until we were exhausted. Family, food, sports, and play were by far the part of my roots that shaped me the most and that still guide me to this day.

My grandfather, who was from the south and loved to go back each summer, would load up his van with way too many of us and head to Monroeville, Alabama. The trips were long but the memories are some of my most powerful. Family in the South lived very differently. The small town contrasted sharply with the large city of Philadelphia. We were on farms and walked country roads. It was a far cry from my home in Wynnefield, surrounded by concrete and driveways. The thing I remember is that even though it was so far away and looked very different, the people felt similar. The grills going, music blasting, kids playing, and adults playing cards and telling stories. It was a tie to a place and people that was deeper than I could explain at the time, but somehow the roots of this black family spread from Alabama to Philly and connected us all, and the people called “white” were nowhere to be found.

I would grow to learn that the people called “white” (soon to be named white people) were more of a dominant force than I understood. I would come to learn that white people built a country and government for themselves. I would later learn why all our white neighbors moved away. I would experience first-hand and witness the power of whiteness around me.

But my roots are deep. They keep me nourished with hope when the scorching sun of racism and bias beams down on me like a humid summer day. My roots remind me that I can flourish in the storm of supremacy and hatred. My roots remind me that I am accepted when mindsets prejudiced against my dark black skin try to shape and control narratives that take away my beauty and humanity. Lastly, my roots connect me to others who may be far away; we share a root system that connects us beneath the surface and supports me when I am dry.

By Leroy Barber