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I suppose if one were to truly chronicle the Powell family history than one must be ready to embrace the hypocrisy of laying claim to a family name that was never ours to start with. Given to my great great grandfather by his white Georgian slave owner the Powell name is rooted in European history beyond the scope (or interest) of this piece. So to is the name of Amos, which from all indications has been passed down now some six generations of male ancestors in our family tree. Truthfully, our family's real name, that of the African slave who was stolen from his homeland, shipped in chains across the Atlantic, and packaged and sold in a slave auction somewhere in a gulf coast port, was lost to our family long, long ago. Long before we could admire his spirit, empathize with his sacrifice, and chronicle his illicit and foreboding journey to this New World. It is to this unnamed family member (and not that of our former slave owners) that the Powell family honors and acknowledges as our ancestral father.
The part of our family history that we can chronicle begins with at a poor plantation in the back fields Georgia. A white family now devastated by the raging Civil war is forced to sell their meager possessions and move further south in search of better farming prospects and more security. They take with them a handful of "free" slaves (only they didn't bother to tell their slaves that), which includes a newborn boy they named "Amos" after their late grand father. That family is called the Powell's and after settling on the outskirts of was to become Birmingham, Alabama they freed was left of their of their servants and began trying to carve out a new future for themselves. However, not all their servants were so eager to leave. Some had been with the family for well over three generations and the foreign words of Northerners proclaiming emancipation did not exactly give cause to celebrate. What would they do in this new "free" society? Where would they go? Would they face the same horrors and cruelties known to slaves if they struck out on their own? These were all perplexing questions that no one seemed to have an answer for including our former owners, the Powell's. What was certain is that some of these servants were in no condition to strike out north, south, east, or west in search of this new America. Such was the mother of my great, great grandfather who elected along with a few others to remain in servitude to the only family and source of food and shelter that they had known.
Fast forward one generation and now that baby name Amos is full grown man living in the harsh realities of the sharecropping Jim Crowe South. His small family (including his son whom he named Amos) lives in a small run down shack which teeters ominously on the verge of collapse from the ravages of time and wear. He dreams of a better day for his children and hopes someday that his own son will be able to go to school and find his own path in this strange and rapidly changing thing called life.
Another generation has passed and now finds our family living within the city limits of Birmingham, Alabama, at least within the Black city limits given that much of the city was still off limits to our people. Amos Powell Sr.. (our grand father) has traded in the plow of his father for a pick at the local steel mine. Back at their city apartment, Georgia Cook his wife of 11 years prepares dinner while her only daughter Pearl looks on from a high chair. Her two sons Amos Jr. and Joseph are still at school fulfilling a dream that both her and Amos Sr. had always wanted for their children. In the meantime it's time to re-stoke the pot belly stove in the corner and begin parboiling the meat. In two hours or so a mix of flour, spices, and lard along with some meat and potatoes will transform into a hardy stew that the whole family will enjoy. A family looking anxiously at the state of affairs in their neighborhood and their country and wondering what will this new thing called the Civil Rights movement mean for their tomorrow.
Fast forward another twenty years or so and we find a young handsome Amos Jr. sporting the prestigious olive green uniform of a US soldier and making his way across town with flowers and chocolates for his high school sweetie pie, LoGrant White. LoGrant is unlike any young lady he knows of. Even though she lived across town (in the other area that Blacks were permitted to live in) and he has known her family for quite some time and even considered her older brother Jesse to be a close friend, LoGrant can be quite a handful. Nicknamed "Little Mama" by her siblings she could be temperamental, brutally honest, and downright stubborn. But at other times she could be as affectionate and loving as his own mother. She was serious about her values (especially church and school) and didn't put up with any nonsense. In fact it had taken three deliveries of flowers, five boxes of chocolates, and three months worth of begging her (not to mention bribing her numerous brothers and sisters) to get her to go out on this date with him. Fortunately for Amos few women could resist the appeal of a man in uniform and to LoGrant this was a sign of responsibility and commitment, which at least was worthy of a date in her book.
This brings us up to the near present
with our family history. Amos and LoGrant were married on October
18,1956 in Los Angeles each having deciding for themselves that
their future together would be better in the golden state and
to that union were born five children: Amos III, Janet, Stephanie,
Vanessa, and Timothy. They bought a house in Carson, CA (in the
south bay area of LA) and raised each of their children with
the values that had been instilled from their parents. This was
a different America than either one their parents or grandparents
had known. Their children would now reap the benefits of generations
of sacrifice by our family and our people. The change and promise
that they themselves had been born on the threshold of were now
a reality for this newest generations of Powell's to experience.
From the plantation acres of Georgia to the suburban tracts of
Los Angeles, the Powell's have lived the African American experience
in their survival of the past, prosperity of the present, and
outlook for the future.