liberation theology

When I was younger, I thought growing up in Rocky Mount, North Carolina was not as good as say growing up in Atlantic Beach, NC or California. Like every kid, I guess I had some sense that life would be better somewhere else. I did not necessarily want to be away from my family. In fact, the opposite was true. I liked being home. I just thought that home would be better at the beach or in California.

Saturday nights were sacred especially in the summer. They were ritual. Mama would cook baked potatoes and make a tossed salad. She always made me a salad that I never ate. She made salad dressing and stored it in a yellow Tupperware container. The tea was sweet. Daddy would cook steaks on the grill. It was a charcoal grill that my maternal grandfather (“Big Daddy”) bought or had made somewhere. One for us and one for grandma and him. The steak was always good. Mostly we cooked sirloin steak as opposed to strip, filet, or rib eye. Of course, Daddy would always cut off a few pieces to eat right from the grill. It tasted better that way. I guess every family has rituals. Perhaps even the most sporadic families has them as well.

Our backyard was large enough for a kickball/baseball/football field. Actually, it wasn’t that big, but it was for eight-year old professional athletes. Sometimes we would play in the neighbors’ back yard since it was free from any trees, storage buildings, or workshops. They did not have any children and never seemed to mind. Our sports changed with the seasons. In the fall we played football complete with uniform, protective pads, helmets, and the fights that came when we tackled each other too hard. In the winter, we tried to play basketball though besides the weather being cool, our abilities were frozen in some respects. The spring and summer were the best. We played baseball and always ran the risk of breaking a window with an extreme foul ball or long home run. I cannot remember ever breaking a window.

My great granddaddy lived “across the railroad tracks.” This meant he was white, lived in his home in the neighborhood where he had lived for many years, and had new neighbors due to the fact that the old ones had either died or moved away. I loved visiting his house. He had a garden, a work shop, and lawn chairs to sit in outside and talk. Rarely, do I remember going to visit him and talking inside. Although I do remember that the kitchen always smelled like great grandma’s biscuits and country ham. The entire family on my father’s side would cross the tracks every year on the Saturday following Thanksgiving for an oyster roast. We would eat, talk, catch up with cousins, uncles, and aunts. The day would end with two other rituals – shaking the pecan trees and taking the family photograph for that year.

I cannot think of any real reason that I believed growing up somewhere other than Rocky Mount would have been better. Life creates rituals. Rituals, sometimes, keeps life interesting and familiar. Wherever we are we probably create rituals that connect us to home and family. Ritual gives a sense of meaning and purpose and understanding. Ritual makes an imprint on our memory perhaps so that when we’ve grown up and recall our childhood, the rituals are now liberating.