POWER IN THE BLOOD
OHIO UNIVERSITY PRESS
SERIES IN RACE, ETHNICITY, AND GENDER IN APPALACHIA
Series Editors:
Lynda Ann Ewen and Marie Tedesco
Memphis Tennessee Garrison:
The Remarkable Story of a Black Appalachian Woman,
edited by Ancella R. Bickley and Lynda Ann Ewen
The Tangled Roots of Feminism,
Environmentalism, and Appalachian Literature,
by Elizabeth S. D. Engelhardt
Red, White, Black, and Blue:
A Dual Memoir of Race and Class in Appalachia,
by William M. Drennen Jr. and Kojo (William T.) Jones Jr.,
edited by Dolores M. Johnson
Beyond Hill and Hollow:
Original Readings in Appalachian Womens Studies,
edited by Elizabeth S. D. Engelhardt
Loving Mountains, Loving Men,
by Jeff Mann
Power in the Blood:
A Family Narrative,
by Linda Tate
L I N D A T A T E
POWER IN THE BLOOD
A FAMILY NARRATIVE
OHIO UNIVERSITY PRESS
ATHENS
Ohio University Press, Athens, Ohio 45701
www.ohioswallow.com
2009 by Ohio University Press
All rights reserved
To obtain permission to quote, reprint, or otherwise reproduce or distribute material from Ohio University Press publications, please contact our rights and permissions department at
(740) 593-1154 or (740) 593-4536 (fax).
Printed in the United States of America Ohio University Press books are printed on acid-free paper
16 15 14 13 12 11 10 09 5 4 3 2 1
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Tate, Linda.
Power in the blood : a family narrative / Linda Tate. 1st ed.
p. cm.(Ohio University Press series in race, ethnicity, and gender in Appalachia)
Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 978-0-8214-1871-0 (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN 978-0-8214-1872-7 (pbk. : alk. paper)
1. Tate, LindaFamily. 2. Cherokee IndiansAppalachian Region, SouthernGenealogy. 3. Cherokee IndiansAppalachian Region, SouthernBiography. 4. Cherokee IndiansAppalachian Region, SouthernSocial conditions. 5. Racially mixed peopleUnited StatesBiography. 6. Cherokee womenAppalachian Region, SouthernBiography. 7. Appalachian Region, SouthernBiography. 8. Appalachian Region, SouthernGenealogy. 9. Appalachian Region, SouthernRace relations. 10. Appalachian Region, SouthernSocial conditions. I. Title.
E99.C5T16 2009
929.20973dc22
2008049922
FOR HENRY , who joined me on this journey
and FOR DAVE
... all our old homes are gone until we come calling.
EDWINA PENDARVIS, OROGENY
CONTENTS
REFERENCES
AND
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
AUTHORS NOTE
The story that follows is my familys story as it lives in my heart.
Most details (even those that have been altered) are historically appropriate and are based on years of painstaking research, but artistic acts of the imagination have helped to flesh out the story. The result is a blend of fiction and nonfiction.
Many names, both of people and of places, are real, but some details (including some names) have been changed to protect the privacy of people I have come to know and honor. I have freely mixed actual names and fictional names. My intention is to bring the past to life as authentically as possible while still maintaining confidentiality.
I owe an immeasurable debt to newfound family members who welcomed and embraced me so warmly and who shared the family story so generously. They will know who they are as the story unfolds, but I hope I have changed enough specifics to let them keep their parts of the story their own.
As I imagine my great-great-grandmother Louisiana and grandmother Fannie telling the stories of their lives, the interpretation of events is solely my own. History and art, fiction and nonfiction, weave together in my telling of our family tale.
This map shows the migration of the Bybee and Armstrong families and their descendants from the 1830s to the present day. Ohio University Cartographic Center.
This genealogy chart blends actual names with fictional names. It is intended only as an aid to the reader and should not be used for research or genealogical purposes.
LINDAS STORY
19881993
Grandma Fannie died when I was five, but now I get word that she is still alive. I hop in my car, unfold the maps, look for the road from my city life to her creekside home. I drive to the roads end, park the car. I wont need the maps anymore. Ill have to find the rest of the way on my own.
I search for the path carefully, balance neatly on the stones across the rushing creek. I come to the house, hidden by tall weeds and saplings. I push through the overgrown bushes, step through the tangled vine that creeps over the stone path, come to the door. I am here, and Fannie is inside.
I raise my hand to knock, then stop. What if she doesnt want to see me? If shed wanted to, she could have found me. Maybe Im not wanted here.
No matter. If shes here, I have to see her. I lift my hand again. I knock, first timidly, then louder. No voices inside, no birds calling in the trees, no animals rustling in the bush. Nothing.
I knock again. This time, the door swings open. Hello! I call as I poke my head just inside. No answer.
I step into the dark house. Where a family might have been is just empty spaceno furniture, no belongings, nothing on the walls. I make my way through a labyrinth of endless halls, push open doors into countless rooms. Hello! Is anybody home? I call. But around every corner theres nothing.
I step into the kitchen, stand on the worn linoleum. I see the sink, the icebox, the table covered with oilcloth. Across the room, nearly hidden in shadow, is an old woman, hunched on a three-legged stool, her feet planted on stone. Her back to me, she works at the mouth of an ancient fireplace. She pours batter into an iron skillet, stirs a pot of stew.
Grandma? I say in a tiny voice.
She hangs up her spoon, settles the lid back on the pot, wipes her hands on her apron, and then, only then, turns to look at me.
Its her. Its Fannie. Its her face, the face I have longed to see. And there are her hands, the hands I have wanted so much to hold in my own.
Who are you? She peers at me with narrowed eyes, her face a hard wall.
I wait for her to know me, to see her eyes open with surprise and delight.
Who are you? she asks again, this time sharply.
My heart races, joy replaced so soon by fear.
Im your Dancing Bear, your Linda. I call each name slowly. We used to dance together in this kitchen. You taught me to make cornbread. You held me in your lap and rocked me. Dont you know me?
