Honorée Fanonne Jeffers is the author of five books of poetry, most recently, The Age of Phillis, and a 2020 inductee into the Alabama Writers Hall of Fame. She is a professor of English at the University of Alabama. Her poem “Inspecting a Region . . .” can be found here. It appears in the Nov/Dec 2020 issue of the Kenyon Review.
What was your original impetus for writing “Inspecting a Region . . .”?
My entire life, my mother had told me about Indigenous ancestry in her family, that her great-grandfather Henry’s mother was a full-blood Cherokee woman. But we have no way to prove that, because unless your Indigenous ancestor was removed and sent out west on the horrific Trail of Tears, there is no record of your Native American background on what are called the Dawes or “Indian” Rolls. There usually won’t be any written record of what tribe your ancestor belonged to, either, unless, again, your people are recorded on the Rolls.
Many African Americans claim Cherokee blood, but in fact, their ancestry may be of another tribe, such as Creek or Seminole or Choctaw.
So that’s the Indigenous history I knew, from my mother’s family. But what I didn’t find out until years after my father died is that he had an ancestor who was supposed to be Cherokee, too. This was my great-great grandmother Mahala. Again, she doesn’t appear on the Indian Rolls because she was not removed out west.
However, “Mahala” was a pretty common name among Southeastern Native Americans. So that sent me researching, as I am wont to do. That’s how the poem got started.
Writing Black women’s history has been central to your poetry, especially when that history isn’t recorded. Can you talk about other writers who are writing in this vein who you especially admire? If there is a “river,” who else is in it?
There are a few poets who do that work. Certainly, my love for and devotion to Lucille Clifton is well-known. Her work is so sacred to me. I own The Collected Poems of Lucille Clifton, and truly, it’s like the Bible. Whenever I’m in need of a good word, I go to that volume. Miss Lucille wrote about ordinary Black women and moved into the undocumented spaces and considered those gaps.
And Natasha Trethewey does that work as well. When Natasha and I used to read our poems to each other on the phone (in the early 2000s), I’d be careful to note what she was working on, so I wouldn’t duplicate her work, because we both are fascinated by deep south history. Fortunately, Natasha’s maternal ancestors are from Louisiana, while mine are from Georgia!
In terms of the nonfiction form, Saidiya Hartman’s work is very important to me, since my scholarly work on Phillis Wheatley Peters draws from the history of the Transatlantic Slave Trade.
And for historical fiction, of course, Toni Morrison.
Can you elaborate on the repeated line “never my father whose line this is”?
My father didn’t care much about the women in his family. He only talked about the men—ironically, these men were of his maternal line, the father and grandfather of his mother.
But Mahala’s physician-husband, Charles Flippin, left no stories or records about his own mother, an enslaved Black woman who had been forced to bear child for her White slave master. But now, there’s plenty information on the slave master. And Charles didn’t leave any information on Mahala, either. At least nothing I’ve found. That really galls me.
The son of Charles and Mahala was a physician, too. His name was George. To have two doctors in a Black family was extraordinary during that era. From time to time, I get emails from public historians who research the Flippin men. And George was the first Black football player at University of Nebraska. They have a big mural of him out there.
But Charles and George felt absolutely no responsibility to Black communities. They wanted to be White—they claimed they were White on official documents. They lived among White people and eventually married White women. After Mahala died, Charles subsequently married four White women. (Yes, four.) And George divorced his Black wife (and the mother of his two children) and married his much younger White nurse.
Yet, my father revered Charles and George. I guess Daddy’s like all of us: he needed to try to make something great from something that was very small.
Have you found anything interesting about your family that didn’t make it into this piece? Are you still looking for information on your great-great grandmother?
Oh, yes. Every once in a while, I go back to researching Mahala Anderson Flippin.
I know this is going to sound strange, but a couple weeks ago, I had a dream. (My friends know that “I had a dream” are famous last words!) And in the dream, I heard the words, “Dalton, Georgia.” I was confused, because my mother’s people are from Georgia, but Dalton is in the northern part of the state. Mama’s family still lives in Eatonton and Milledgeville, in the central portion.
But I was compelled, too, so I just started researching. After about three hours, I found out that Charles Flippin’s Union Army regiment—he was in the United States Colored Troops—had fought in Dalton, Georgia.
But while doing that work, I found out that “Colored” did not only mean “Black” in the Union Army. Also, it meant Native American, Pacific American, and Asian American! And I’d read somewhere in my research that Mahala’s brother had served alongside her future husband.
More importantly, I found out that Dalton, Georgia was a town that had contained many Cherokee folks, before Removal of the Indigenous tribes out west.
So the mystery deepens: Did Charles Flippin meet Mahala Anderson in Dalton, Georgia while serving in the Union Army? And was Mahala truly Cherokee, as my mother told me that my father had told her?
I’ll keep researching and listening to my dreams.
It’s David H. Lynn’s last issue as editor, and I know he’s very pleased he could work with you again. Would you be willing to tell us about your first publication in the Kenyon Review?
In 2002, my first publication in the Kenyon Review was “Hagar to Sarai,” a spiritually-based Blues poem. I can’t believe it’s been so long ago. Oh, I was so thrilled! I thanked David over and over. It was a real feather in my cap and I got a lot of attention in the poetry world.
And really, the joy never stops. I’m always so honored, whenever I’m published here. This is a renowned journal.
How has your writing changed since you started out?
My writing these days is very focused on meeting deadlines. When I first started writing, nobody cared but me and my mama. (She read everything. She was my first editor and audience.) But now, I’m blessed to have folks interested in my work, so editors will come to me and ask for poems and essays. Rarely, they will want short stories, but I can’t write short stories from scratch on deadline. I kept some half-finished stories around, though, just in case.
Which non-writing-related aspect of your life most influences your writing?
I talk to God a lot. Usually several times a day, throughout the day. I know it’s not popular among artistic circles to say you believe in God, but I do believe, and I’m unashamed about that. I find joy through this relationship.
Many times, God comes to my dreams and speaks words to me, and I write those words down. That’s actually how I started writing poetry, all the way back in 1992—in my dreams. If you look at my poetry carefully, you can see which poems were written by me, and which poems were written by God.
What project(s) are you working on now, or next?
I’m finished with my first novel, The Love Songs of W.E.B. Du Bois, which is due out from Harper in August 2021. We’re in copy edits now, and so, I’ve turned to a collection of essays. I love writing essays. I feel so smart when I’m working things out through nonfiction. I don’t always feel smart with the other forms. I feel humbled. But I guess you can’t feel like a superstar all the time.