CHILD OF THE DIASPORA
BY ABDURRASHID AL’WADUD
Ten years into my sentence, I received an order to report to the Captain’s office. Walking slowly, I tried to figure out what I did wrong. Then I tried to remember if I had any contraband in my cell. Surely they must be searching my cell if I am being called out so late at night? The Captain handed me the phone, and I watched her glance away as I slowly put the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” I heard a sweet, familiar voice drenched with tears. “AbdurRashid, your grandmother died … ” I almost missed the chair trying to sit down. The Captain caught me. “Rashid,” Mama said, “I don’t want you to do anything stupid.” I reassured her as I stared at the Captain. Over the next few days, I was allowed to speak to Mama in the Captain’s office. I also realized the Captain and Mama had been having conversations. After the last memorial phone call, I thanked the Captain with a long hug.
Six months later, my father died. Eleven days after that my favorite aunt passed. It was then I realized I knew very little about my family history. Why did my great-grandfather give all six of his children (sons and daughters) his middle name, Rothschild? Grandma always said that he loved his name. Her sister, my great-aunt, who took me to temple, just shook her head when I told her that story.
For as long as I can remember, Mama always stressed excellence in education. From elementary school through college, I did too. Prison was no different. At first there were no college classes, so I took cognitive skills classes and any vocational skills classes I could find. I know it sounds clichéd, but I really wanted to be a better man going out than when I came in. So I read everything I could get my hands on.
Wanting to stay busy, I started doing genealogical research. I found out that many libraries around the country have genealogical collections, and for a nominal fee, they will share that information — this includes the National Archives and the archival departments in each state. Over the years, I have spent close to $400 dollars in postage alone (including self-addressed stamped envelopes), and in return, I have traced my family back to the early 1800s. I have even obtained a copy of an overseer’s diary from the plantation of Robert Ruffin Barrow, who enslaved some of my ancestors. I have a copy of the discharge papers of a great-great uncle who escaped from Louisiana, then joined the military and fought for the North. I found out that I have ancestors who have fought from the War of Rebellion to the Vietnam conflict.
In my search, I stumbled across an open family secret. Some knew this secret, but most did not, including my mother. Rothschild was not my great-grandfather’s middle name. It was in fact his last name. (I immediately thought back to my wonderful great-aunt Mildred. I remembered the times we went to temple. I remembered Friday nights drinking Kedem grape juice and eating the special challah raisin loaf she would bake just for us. I think of the songs that were not songs, but prayers.) I found out that my great-grandfather’s grandmother Hannah Rothschild emigrated here from Bremen, Germany, in 1896 to escape anti-Semitism. She raised my great-grandfather with her other four children: Kolman (Charles), Juda (Julian), and the twins Gita (Gertrude) and Selma. (I often wondered where the twins in our family came from. My wife and I were expecting a pair, until she miscarried.)
A call came to report to my counselor. I didn’t think anything of it until she asked me to sit down and then hit the mute button on the speakerphone. “AbdurRashid? Mama died.”
My body went numb. I bit my lip trying to hold off the tears that welled in my eyes. I listened to my sister as we tried to figure out how to arrange Mama’s burial in an Islamic cemetery. I tried to come up with ideas and advice for these final arrangements. I knew my sister was overwhelmed by her grief, which was compounded by the loss suffered by her three children, who worshipped their Nana, who had just died.
“Did you call Michelle?” I asked. “No.” My heart dropped. I was not upset with my sister. I was crushed about what to say to my daughter, who too had lost her grandmother.
Minutes turned to hours. Hours turned to days. Days turned to weeks. I fell into a funk of being. I was confused. I prayed five times a day, yet it seemed like I was going through the motions. Shabbat service was held only once a month, when the volunteers from the Jewish Community Center could come into Oregon State Correctional Institution. (From the very first time I met these beautiful individuals, I have felt a special affinity toward every single member of the center.)
“We need to do the Mourner’s Kaddish,” Aaron said. “It’s still within the eleven months since my father passed,” Jean chimed in. I felt a little odd about doing a special prayer for my mother, and said so.
“The Mourner’s Kaddish is for the living.” Aaron added with a weak smile, “Turn to page 154.” He looked around, deeply inhaled: “Yit-ga-dal v’yit-Ka-dash sh’mei ra-ba b’al-ma div’ra ch-r’u’tei …”
Before I knew it, my face was covered with tears although the words were in a language I did not understand. Yet I knew it was speaking to my soul. I looked at Jean, and she too was crying. Aaron finished: “O-seh sha-lom bim’ro-mav, hu ya-a-seh sha-lom a-lei-nu v’al kol Yis-ra’eil v’i-m’ru Amein.”
“Let the glory of God be extolled and God’s great name be hallowed. May the source of peace send peace to all who mourn, and comfort to all who are bereaved. Amen.”
The pressure built with the loss of each family member, until Mama’s passing cracked my soul. I felt lost, but I knew I could not give up. In my family, my generation was now the oldest, and I was a year or so behind my cousin Stephanie. Despite my incarceration, I am loved and my guidance is sought. My ancestors were enslaved in America, genocidally executed during the Shoah in World War II. My people have been persecuted and yet have survived being spread throughout the Diaspora. I have learned lessons from my Mama, my grandmother, my great-grandfather, and from Grandma Hannah, who escaped Germany to take care of her family (and others) by running a boardinghouse. I have learned all I can do is my loving best.
Suddenly, I found peace. | ARA
WITH ROOTS IN THE CONGO, EUROPE, AND OF COURSE, AMERICA, ABDURRASHID AL’WADUD HAS BEEN INFLUENCED BY MANY CULTURES. HIS WRITING AND LOVE OF ALL DIFFERENT PEOPLES REFLECTS THIS.
