Sankofa Village Storytelling Project

Dedicated to Beatrice Marie Prince Davis

My mother was a quiet force in my life.

She expressed her love for me through actions, not words – like taking me to Japan town to buy an authentic kimono for my Girl Scout assignment and driving all over the city to find the Chinese jacks I just had to have that weren’t available in our neighborhood.  I was an (almost) full-grown woman in college before I realized that my mother had always dipped my strawberries in sugar so that they would be sweet. Beatrice Marie Prince Davis was also an “old-school” educator – the kind of teacher who would walk a petulant student to their momma’s house after school so she could let the mother know that their child had acted out in class and then turn around the next day and make that same student the class monitor. 

Back then, when corporal punishment was the way of the land, she carried a ruler in hand to accompany her determination that every one of her students was going to live up to their potential. Years later, those same students would see my mother out and about in the community and run up to her and say things like, “Ms. Davis, I’m so glad you were mean and made me learn my math.” 

So, one of the saddest and most difficult conversations I’ve ever had (then and since) was convincing my mother that she had to retire because diabetes had taken too much of a toll on her body.  To this day, the memory of that conversation brings tears to my eyes. Soon after, as an only child in my early 20s, I became the primary caretaker for my mother (and eventually my father as well).

Caretaking was both an honor and an awakening. An honor because I was given the opportunity to reciprocate the kind of selfless love that I had received from my parents growing up as a child. An awakening because I learned first-hand that the system really only provides caretaking supports for those with little to no means – for those with moderate means, you’re pretty much on your own to take care of your loved ones as best you can with the resources that you have. Nevertheless, while I regret the health circumstances that led to being a caretaker, I treasure the opportunity I was given to be a caregiver.

It’s been almost twenty years since my mother passed away. She would have been 85 this year. In our time together, she never really shared her life stories with me.  It just wasn’t her way. But I know that the Black women of my mother’s generation have so much wisdom to share. The Sankofa Village Storytelling Project is my way of honoring the stories that were never told – and lifting up the stories that need to be heard.