INTRODUCTION
ARRIVAL
I never had the pleasure of meeting her. Her name was Lucy Carmichael, my great-grandmother—the first in a litany of women to defy expectations. Born in 1900, at a time when the life expectancy for a colored woman was a mere 33.5 years, she surpassed all odds, living until 1978.
Her daughter is my grandmother, Florence Elizabeth Carmichael Adams, born on August 10th, 1923. In 1988, one year before I was born, she was sixty-five years old, and expected to live another seventeen years. At seventy-five, a decade later, another 11.2 years of life was anticipated, equaling eighty-six or eighty-seven years old. Despite her encounters with endometrial and thyroid cancers, her ability to reach one hundred years would be doubtful. But that’s not her story.
My mother called her to let her know I was on the way.
As I arrived at Cathedral Avenue, memories flooded back from my high school days, running along the nearby trails with teammates. Leaves littered the sidewalk as my Stacy Adams dress shoes skirted them aside. I walked a few hundred steps before turning into the driveway that led up to the sliding glass doors of her building. An orange cone and a missing chunk of cement from the overhang decorated the otherwise beautiful entryway. I would rather not admit that I was out of breath by this point, but now more than ever, I was attuned to why my mother always parked in the garage underneath the building. (If you’re reading this and know my mother, please don’t tell her she was right.)
The Ethiopian doorman greeted me with his country’s traditional handshake, one he had taught me years prior. His smile and gentleness I would one day miss, but not today. Continuing inside, there was another familiar face behind the post-Covid plexiglass—a security measure post-Covid. He was dressed in a navy-blue blazer, pressed gray slacks, black sneakers, and a Dallas Cowboys lanyard worn around his neck.
“They let you work here while wearing that thing around your neck,” I commented.
He gave his recurrent non-verbal response—a smile.
“My grandmother, 1406 East,” I pointed toward the east tower she’s called home for the last two decades. He motioned for me to continue my ritual. There were another two hundred steps along an identical corridor to the one that awaited me on the fourteenth floor. I reached the elevator at the end of the hall. I paused—how many more of these walks would I have the privilege to make?
I pressed the button. The elevator arrived, and I stepped inside. As the box ascended, I peeked down at the Apple Watch on my left wrist. No new messages or alerts. The doors opened, and I stepped out onto the fourteenth floor. Like the floors below, a floral-patterned rug covered this long empty hallway. There were two lines of navy-blue doors with gold trim as far as my eyes could see. I headed towards the familiar one—1-4-0-6. Twice, I knocked, quickly pulling my cell phone out to see if my future evening plans had altered. I could hear voices inside her apartment. The Access Hollywood anchors were discussing celebrity events and recent news. Another minute passed, and the door tiptoed open. Her beautiful face emerged.
“Hello, grandson.”
“Good morning, Grandma—how are you?” I pressed my lips against her delicate cheek.
“I’m here,” she answered warmly, slowly beginning to navigate her predictable three-point turn back to the chaise my mother once bought for her. I slowly followed behind her.
I’d barely taken a few steps into her apartment when a heat wave struck me. Imagine getting on a plane fully clothed for the dead of a Chicago winter, and the pilot surprising you with the plane’s arrival in Jamaica instead. I shook my jacket off one arm at a time and unwound a gray Old Navy scarf from around my neck. There, straight ahead was my favorite chair, a light blue cloth with thin gold script embroidery older than I. I placed my knit hat down as Grandmother lowered herself into her chair. I grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around her frail shoulders. She patted my hands in gratitude.
The aroma of her Maxwell coffee snuck into my nostrils before my eyes located the coffee mug. It was situated on a vanilla tray alongside her spectacles, two napkins, and a few balled-up tissues. A small eye-drop bottle and pill container hugged each other close to the tray’s edge. Her chair was angled towards the television. It rested on the same wooden stand that once held the Nintendo sixty-four video game console I played as a young boy. Next to the television was a small dark cherry stand only large enough for the black landline phone and a few photographs of my sister and me. Memories from my Emory University graduation, Dominique’s high school commencement ceremony, and other momentous Campbell family occasions. In the living room, there were two more sofas. One for general company and one for Father Thom (my dad). The sofa against the window was his. It was a safe location where he could steal a mid-workday nap out from under the gaze of my mother when he had gone over to Grandma’s with the duty of replacing one of her blown light bulbs. In the middle of the
sofas was a glass coffee table playing shelter to two versions of the game Scrabble.
Directly behind Grandmother’s chaise was a mahogany piano, which long ago had lost the use of its main function—now serving as another milieu for pictures and trinkets of a loved and well-lived life. I went over and sat down at the piano, hovering my fingers over the black and white piano keys, imagining the colorful array of melodies produced over the years. Glancing up from the piano, I was grabbed by the picture of my aunt with former First Lady Michelle Obama, laughing as their smiles shone brightly against their chocolate skin. I can only imagine what two Black women who had both overcome the weight of this world were laughing about?
My favorite picture of Grandma Flo and me was along the same wall between the China closet and the door to her patio. In this photo, she has a soft, powerful gaze with her head slightly tilted showing off her beautiful cheekbones. Her hands are set gently in front of her. I am peeking out from behind her—nearly bald—two weeks removed from completing my pledge process for one of the prestigious Black fraternities. The last object covering the back wall was a honey-brown bookshelf where the works of Alice Walker, Ralph Ellison, Maya Angelou, and Alex Haley rested. Each wall space that was uninhabited by a piece of furniture was adorned by African canvases, framed European prints, or other mediums of artwork from the many countries my grandmother, mother, and aunt have ventured. Her apartment blinds were closed, but had they been open, I would be staring straight at the top of the famed National Cathedral where the memorial service for deceased United States presidents occurs. After studying the pearls of her apartment, I returned to the most treasured item in there—her. Her brilliant mind was surrounded by sunken temples, strands of thin gray hair atop her head, and soft brown eyes that glued to her television and Don Lemon with his nightly monologue.
Grandma: So, what’s new with you?
Me: Not much. I’m in town for a few days so I had to come see you.
Grandma: Your mother told me you were coming home. I wasn’t sure if you’d have time to come over to see little old’ me.
Me: Seeing you was a priority!
Grandma: Is that so? Well, well. I like hearing that.
Me: Have you worked on any puzzles lately?
Grandma: No puzzles, but I have been playing Scrabble with my caregiver.
Me: That was our game!
Grandma: You want to play?
Me: Not right now. Maybe later or another time. But may I ask you something?
Grandma Flo: Sure, what is it?
Me: I am curious about your life.
Grandma Flo: Well, that is not a question.
Me: I know, grandma. That picture up there, it’s a class photo of some sort?
Grandma: Yes. It’s my high school class photo from when we visited Washington DC.
I reached up and delicately removed it from her white bookshelf.
Me: It says, 1941 here…
Grandma: That’s the year I graduated high school. Just a few years ago.
We both laughed.
Me: Did every student get this? I don’t know what to call it.
Grandma: It’s called a lawn photograph. Every student didn’t get one. My chemistry teacher gave me his. I guess it was his copy.
Me: Really? Which one? Do you remember his name?
Grandma: He was my chemistry teacher. Gar? Garman? Mr. Garman, maybe?
Me: You must’ve been pretty good at chemistry.
Grandma: I’d say so but it’s hard to remember.
Me: Did you also take physics?
Grandma: Oh, I hated physics.
Me: Me too. It’s so terrible. (Still looking at the lawn photography). This photo is my favorite…
Grandma: I think Montier framed it. He was like an oddball (Don’t go telling anyone my brother was an oddball). But, he had some skills. He could do different things, but, in my opinion, he just didn’t do half the right things because he didn’t finish school and everybody in the family at least finished high school. He played hooky all the time. The officer would come to the door, and no one knew where he was, but everyone knew he was in school.
Me: When he played hooky, where did he go?
Grandma: I don’t know. Out of town, I imagine. He’d just wander around… I can’t think of anything else. I don’t think Mother knew because she would’ve told the officer… maybe that was his way of… life… do what you want to do… that doesn’t say anything.
She chuckled to herself.
Grandma Flo: Now, what more about my life do you want to know?
Me: I want to know more about your upbringing in New Jersey. Did your mother ever share stories with you about her time growing up down South? Or why did she migrate from down South to New Jersey?
I headed over to my grandmother’s closet as I continued rattling off questions.
Grandma Flo: Be careful opening the closet. There ‘s a lot of stuff in there.
Heeding her warning, I slid the door open.
Me: Ahah, let’s see.
Coats, hangers, boxes, and picture books all existed together in this tight space. I grabbed one of the picture books and closed the door. I returned to her side.
Me: How about this one?
Grandma: Let’s see. Open it up.
Me: Is that my mother in a leotard?
Grandma: Yes, your mother and aunt took ballet lessons. Lucile didn’t like it. She wanted to take tap, so we got her a tap outfit, but they still had to take ballet.
Me: Look at my mother’s face… she still makes that same face today.
We both started laughing.
Grandma: No. Mother wasn’t the kind to talk to the children. To the children? No, no. That sort of strikes me as funny. She never talked to me about our ancestors. I don’t know. She didn’t talk about the family or anything, but we knew her mother–our grandmother. See, we called her momma. She came to stay with us.
Me: So you called your mother, mother? And your grandmother, momma?
Grandma Flo: That’s correct.
Me: Ok! What was momma like?
Grandma Flo: More outgoing than mother. She would talk more. A long time ago, adults didn’t tell children anything, but she was different. And she spent many hours out in the garden. We didn’t have much of one, but that was something different from my mother. Mother was a seamstress while momma was a gardener.
Me: How or why do you think your mother chose New Jersey instead of New York or Chicago?
Grandma: Who wants to live in New York?
I laughed. Per usual, Grandma was not wrong. I loved visiting New York, but it seemed like a tough place to live.
Grandma: I mean Alicia loved New York, but your mom didn’t like New York. Maybe, she did but not like Alicia did. Alicia finished school and then she stayed
up there.
I dragged my favorite chair over the thick rug, placing myself as close to Grandma Flo as the furniture would allow.
Grandma: I guess there are a few things I can share with you.
Me: Did you always want to be a teacher? Did you know it all those years ago?
Grandma Flo: Really, Jason, I did not know what I wanted to be. I thought I wanted to be a nurse because my big sister, Leona, was a nurse. That didn’t last long. And truth be told, I wouldn’t have made a good nurse.
Me: Leona was the nurse. How about Margaret and Mildred? What did they do for a living?
Grandma Flo: Margaret worked for the big Nabisco cookie company.
Me: Oh…
Grandma: Yes, that one. She could bring home all the cookies and crackers she wanted. I guess it was easy to buy them at a discounted price or they would simply give them to you? That’s what she did most of her working time. As for Mildred, let me think more about her, and I’ll have that answer for our next conversation.
This book is a tribute to the life of Florence Elizabeth Carmichael Adams, a woman whose legacy is tightly woven into both Black history and America’s history. Through intangible yet momentous occasions and captured conversations, her relationship with her daughters shines a light on the proud narrative of Black women—a narrative that often goes unnoticed. Just as rosemary grows in nutrient-deficient sandy soil, Florence grew through her own dry environment and cultivated an unexpected garden. Her emergence from Millville, New Jersey, to Washington DC, casts a reminder of the resilience we all have within us. In combination with such joy is a sense of melancholy knowing life is not everlasting. But, such finality can be overcome by sharing her journey. Thus, that is the fuel that ignited my desire for this book; through my desire, deep love, and admiration for her, I will cease to say anything further and will let her voice grace the following pages and tell her own tale.
CHAPTER ONE
THE CARMICHAELS, Pt. 1
“But on paper, things can live forever.
On paper, a butterfly never dies.”
― Jacqueline Woodson, Brown Girl Dreaming
We were two little girls playing in the yard. We didn’t know color back then, but we knew we were different. The one Mother owned in Millville, New Jersey–a little racist town in Cumberland County.
Each time their old white pickup drove by it sent swirls of dust into the air. Mildred picked up one of the stones and cocked her arm back. They were yelling. Mildred was silent. She was ready to hit one of the White boys straight between their eyes. She had the strength, but no aim. They did not know that though. Only I did. I also knew if she released the stone it was going to bring more trouble than we wanted. We didn’t fear these boys. We feared Mother. I walked up behind Millie.
“Get ya nigger asses inside. Stupid nigger girls. Where’s your daddy? Your momma just allows you to be out here playing alone all by yourselves? Do you even have a daddy? I bet you don’t. He’s probably run off somewhere. You ugly niggers. You ain’t got nothin’ better to do, than play some stupid nigger games.”
“Florence, stay behind me. I need to show these White boys we ain’t afraid of them,” Millie said, feeling my concern.
“Millie, we best keep those stones. We’re going to need them,” I whispered into her right ear. She stared straight ahead. She could hear me, but she wasn’t listening.
The stones continued flying from their pickup truck landing only a few feet away from us. I was nervous. I tried once more.
“Millie. We got castles to build, and these are the stones we are going to use.”
My sister lowered her arm.
“Come on Florence, let’s go to the other side of the house,” Mildred grabbed me by the hand.
Their bigotry tired for the day as they continued down the road down Delsea Drive, dust kicking up behind them. Those White boys had one road—Delsea drive—they could use to torment us with. Lucky for us we had three more sides to our home. This was my first instance of White folks going out of their way to insert themselves into our life as I heard Mother say—they were making it a point to insert themselves into our business.
There were eight of us who called her mother, four boys and four girls: Margaret, Mildred, Leona, Mollington, Montaire, Donald, Kirby, and me – Florence. I was the youngest of the girls. Born in 1923 in Trenton, New Jersey—Florence Elizabeth Carmichael. Carmichael was from my father. His first name was Wade, but that’s all I ever knew about him. I spelled out my full name for you because it will most certainly be the last time you hear it. One day one of my sisters decided all of us children needed nicknames. We were careful not to use them when mother was in hearing distance, or trouble was going to find our bottoms.
Margaret, our oldest sister, was born in 1919. We called her Peggy. Peggy and I shared a similar complexion but had a few distinct differences. God placed a mole on her right cheek and did not provide her with the height he did the rest of us, girls. I was relatively quiet. She was bold. There was a fire within her. I say that to say she wasn’t scared of much. Mildred, Leona, and I were all tall, long-legged, girls. Leona was the second oldest. We called her Lee. Peggy and Lee were both born down in Dillon, South Carolina where they spent most of their upbringing with my grandmother and Aunt Missy. In the 1900s, down South, every other lady went by Missy, so that’s what we called her. She did have a real government name, but I never learned it (and still to this day don’t know it).
Once Peggy and Lee were of high school age, they joined us up in Millville. I remember a distinct conversation with Peggy when she told me how the people at the school–our high school–required her to stay back and repeat a grade level because of her thick southern accent. Despite also migrating from the South, the school people did not decide to hold Leona back. So, in true Millville fashion, they both ended up in the same grade all because of a Southern accent.
The sister I was the closest to was Mildred. We were raised together in New Jersey, but truth be told she was born in South Carolina. Whenever any of us were annoyed with Milly, it was really simple to get under her skin.
“Florence, don’t talk about where I was born. I don’t want to hear anything about South Carolina. Ya hears,” she’d say!
That was Milly. She was born June 7th, 1920. We spent many waking hours together. As the pastor said in the church, we had joy in the morning and joy in the evening.
During summer break, Milly and I attended a bible school at one of the White churches. It was one of the church buildings where people from different churches were allowed to gather. All that meant was that Black children could attend alongside the White ones. We spent the day doing arts and crafts mostly, but each day for a few hours the pastor would teach us scriptures from the bible. There was no playtime for running around or physical activities; only art projects to be completed. Mildred and Leona competed for being the most emphatic, I was the quietest and Margaret was as bold as she was short. I was no athlete, but at a young age, I was fast. The fastest of us girls.
“Florence, you think you’re the fastest, huh? Let’s race and see,” Mildred smiled.
I was smiling, too. There were four corners to our home.
“Okay Mildred, let’s. I’ll start over there (pointing to the other side of the house) and you start here. I’ll even let you start us. Give me time to get over there, then yell go!”
I jogged to the other side of the house in my school shoes and a blue dress mother had sewn for me. I took a starting stance.
“Go!” Millie yelled.
I took off letting my legs carry me around the house. I knew I was going to catch her, but as soon as I turned the second corner of the home, there was Millie. We smacked into each other. Our heads collided and we fell to the ground. Two colored girls sprinting around their mother’s home going towards each other—what’s the worst that might occur?
“Mother!” my big sister yelled out.
No tears were shed. We were tough. We were mother’s girls. However, there was blood and an unnecessary trip to the doctor’s office. We held towels against our heads as tight as possible knowing we’d be in even more trouble if we got any blood on the bus or any other piece of furniture on our journey.
We sat in the waiting room as a White gentleman in a white coat approached the mother.
“Yes, ma’am. Please bring your daughters right this way.”
He led us from the waiting room into a small examination room with a green table in it and a bunch of unfamiliar instruments. This was the first time I had ever been inside a doctor’s office, and it would be the last for quite some time. Mother didn’t believe in going to the doctor’s. The doctor asked what happened, looking at Mildred and I, but we knew better. Mother did the talking. We, the children did the sitting quietly and listening. She simplified the story by disclosing to the doctor that her daughters were playing and somehow had collided with each other. Both Millie and I needed three stitches each to be put back together. When we arrived back home Montaire and Molington were waiting for us.
“What did you two knuckleheads do?” Montaire gloated.
“Y’all got matching bandages, Florence,” Mol nudged.
“I think you two have something better to be doing than bothering your sisters,” Mother stated.
Mildred and I retired to our room to sleep off our recent adventure and the unfortunate circumstances. We shared a room while Mollington and Montaire had their own room.
“Let’s go see Mr. Green,” Montaire had already started out the screen door, and Mol closed in step behind him.
I called my brother Montaire by his full name. Our brothers and some of the boys from school called him Mont. Boy, he was as hard-headed as they come, always doing what he wanted. I guess one could say he had his own agenda. I admit he was good at fishing and enjoyed the simple life of being by the water; sitting, waiting for something to happen. (There is probably more to fishing but that’s how I see it). He’d go fishing with some of the White men who had boats. I don’t know if they liked him, but they tolerated him enough to let him on their boats. My frustration with him was that he never did anything academic. He always found an excuse for his late assignments and poor grades. He didn’t have to do it like that, but he did. I can’t remember the year he dropped out of high school. He might have been a sophomore with two years left to finish. He pleaded with his mother many evenings to sign him up for the army. One day she gave in and signed off on him to enlist. He was only sixteen years of age. I wish Mother had made him finish school. She did not. He never ended up going to fight in the war. He became a carpenter. A job that requires a little bit of math—the little a high school dropout could muster.
Molington—he was my favorite brother. It was easy for us to communicate with one another. The boys called him Mol. I called him Moxy. He was a hunter, mostly small animals, from what I recall. He would trap muskrats and sell the furs. Not for any real decent money but he made a few dollars off each fur. What was decent money back then when a loaf of bread was only ten cents? He often invited me to join him on one of his expeditions but routinely, I declined.
My youngest brothers—Donald, and Kirby—did not have nicknames. Donald was born on January 14, 1931. My baby brother, our youngest sibling, was Kirby. He stood about six foot, five inches, which he used quite well to become a high-school standout in track and field. As he grew up Kirby was home alone most of the time since the rest of us were many years older and had already left Millville. This solitude forced him to have to figure out life without the luxury of an older sibling. There was a big ol’ field near mother’s home ready for his long stride and lanky arms but he insisted on playing with his sports ball in the little yard next to this White man’s home. One day, like most days, Kirby’s ball went over into that White man’s yard. Mother told me that man was so mad he used all kinds of colorful language. He decided to keep the ball that very day. I never asked how but on a different day, Kirby got that ball back. This was Millville. This was Mother’s home. We had fun. We took our licks. And we loved each other as much as we loved our skin color.
My classmates–the Colored ones–called me Flossie. Most of the White ones didn’t even acknowledge me in passing but they printed Flossie under my photo in the yearbook. I suppose that was their unveiling. The abhorrence for my nickname like most other things I kept to myself, but if you’re reading this please know if you want to call me anything other than Florence, call me Flo.
Jason Campbell 