My Roots

The Deep Threads of My SOUL

In order to heal from years of neglecting my most inner self. I bravely found my youngest self and said "I am here for you, let's talk". What is behind our deepest pain, yes I see that scare but what are we covering up. As I peeled back the layer, I knew it would bleed, I held my breathe for the pain, but I had to face it, or as I soon found out, I had to hear it again, "people saying, whispering, laughing softly, the DARK one. As a child they saw my blackness first. Not my smile that could light up a room, not my infectious laugh, not my energy that was undeniably bright and strong, screaming future leader, Nope the dark sister is all they saw. I would have been perfectly happy with the middle child, the shorter one, or how about just calling me by my name Angela, or Angie. I said go deeper, what is the message you are feeling from these words. Compared to who and Why?

See my oldest sister, is referred to as light skinned. She was taller and had a different grade of hair. But in my eyes at first and for many years she was just my sister. We wore the title “Military Brats” like a badge of honor—or at least that’s what the world called us. My family moved often, packing up memories and starting anew, in different states but as a child it seemed like different worlds. The one world I remembered best for two years, was outside the country, Heilbronn Germany. I loved this place and could never figure out why it was so dear to my heart. As I sat quietly in reflection I remember my mother telling others the German women loved my face and dark skin they would rub my face and say how beautiful I was. Those kind words and gestures warmed my heart about that part of the world but my soul was still wounded. Each place we lived shaped a different part of me, yet the strongest anchors of my identity were always my parents: two people as different as night and day, each teaching me life lessons in their own distinct way.

Earl Clarke, the e at the end of our name was what he added as he signed up for the military, I guess he needed his own identity.

My father is a natural-born storyteller. He has this incredible ability to connect with anyone, anywhere, weaving tales that danced between reality and what I like to call “his truth.” Whether his stories were entirely factual or not, they captivated and drew people in. Watching him navigate the world with such charisma, I learned how to observe people, how to listen, and how to find a secret thread in every experience. He taught me that connection—real or imagined—is the glue that binds us all.

Agnes Clementine Clarke (my mother)

On the other hand, is an introvert to her core. I’ve called her “Agnes” since middle school, a name that somehow feels both endearing and reflective of her quiet demeanor. She was the daughter of Buddy and Ernestine Wilkins. Now Buddy a towering man with hands as strong as his heart was a provider in every sense of the word. He worked tirelessly across multiple jobs to ensure his family was cared for. He shielded and nurtured my mother, wrapping her in the kind of love that made her world feel safe and whole. But wrapping her tight also made her lonely, as see was never seen by the world, because she wasn't sure how to introduce herself. She only knew she was Buddy and Ernestine's child.

Then there was Ernestine, fondly known as Big Mamma, my mother’s mother—a woman who proved that you don't need physical stature to loom large in life. Though petite, her presence was monumental, shaping the hearts and minds of those lucky enough to know her. Raised was raised by her grandmother, tragically her mom died during childbirth, Big Mamma grew up resilient and resourceful.

Her entrepreneurial spirit was legendary. She turned her humble home into a hub of activity, selling hearty dinners to adults from her back screen door and "hard cups" (an old fashion popsicle) to children from the front screen door. When Ernestine spoke, people listened. She cooked, sewed, and loved her planets and flowers as if they were her children. She commanded authority, and nurtured her community with a strength that was as undeniable as the delicious aromas that flowed from her kitchen.

Through Big Mamma’s influence, my mother discovered the power of stillness—the ability to take sanctuary in one’s own space and essence. Right now in this very moment of reflecting and telling my story my mother’s  introversion and limitation to be seen that always rubbed me the wrong way, was her source of quiet resilience. A protection she needed when she did not feel the same love and safety given to her by her father. Her quietness was an opportunity for her  to gather strength from within and face the world that she never had to because Buddy provided everything. It is sad to say my mother in her late eighties is still wondering how to introduce herself to the world.

As I began to truly honor my deep journey, I realized something profound: unlocking —the truest, deepest part of me—is the key, to honor the quiet strength of my mother, the boundless connectivity of my father, the unwavering protection of Buddy, and the large-as-life spirit of Big Mamma my Dark Skin became my most Beautiful Me. Together, they would unleash the full truth of my soul, revealing a version of self that I had hidden my entire life.

All the parts of me, I was more than my skin color, I was rooted and grounded in my ancestors and the beauty that has risen brings me to tears.