By Rev. Dorothy S. Boulware,
AFRO Managing Editor,
dboulware@afro.com
“Dorothy Scott. He said your name before I could ask.”
Why would anyone get so excited at the sound of their name? I’ve been Dorothy Scott for more than 72 years, even though I’ve been Boulware for 54 of those years.
“Dorothy Scott” was the response to a question.
“Do you know of siblings outside your regular family?” Without hesitation, my newly found little brother had responded to my colleague with one moniker: “Dorothy Scott.”
Most exquisite was the fact that there had been no prior discussion between them, though quite a lot between my friend and I.
The response answered not only that first question, but all those that had ever been asked before that peculiar evening under a sky covering conference goers, totally unaware of the history made in their very presence.
Most poignant to me also was the fact that my father– a person I disdained only to match the disdain he’d shown me– had spent a bit of time writing my name in his journals.
I don’t know what that meant to him, having only seen my biological father a total of 10 times in a lifetime. To me it meant I was more than a notch in his proverbial belt; more than a boast in bad times and a brag in the best of times.
I was a sentence in a journal– actually sentences in more than one journal.
To me, it meant the missed meetings might have had some reason…or not. To me, it meant I was important enough to speak my existence for the heirs who would have their hands on the journals in the future.
Actually we’ll never know.
But my colleague found me a brother. And my brother introduced me to our nephew.
And last night my niece introduced herself to me and called me “Auntie.”
Not bad for a family-fostered child who belonged to everyone in the family and no one, all at the same time.
Help us Continue to tell OUR Story and join the AFRO family as a member – subscribers are now members! Join here!
