Blog Archives - trish hermanson

Cudjoe "Kazoola" Is My Hero

5/29/2020

The last known survivor from the last slave ship to enter America is my hero.
     At age nineteen, Kazoola and other tribe members were captured by fellow Africans and sold to white slave traders for transport to Alabama even though the trans-Atlantic slave trade had been illegal for fifty-two years. Kazoola became Cudjoe Lewis.
     For five years, Cudjoe and his fellow Africans labored, even rebuilding Mobile’s fortifications during the Civil War. Then one day, Union forces entered the city. The Africans celebrated to the beat of a drum - they were free. But they had no way to return home.
  Cudjoe asked his former slave master for reparations of land. He refused. So the former slaves pooled their resources, bought land, and established a self-governing hamlet, African Town. They were safe there from the outside world that called them “savages” and “monkeys.” They built a school. Adjacent to Cudjoe’s property and facing east toward Africa, they established Old Baptist Church.
     I’m standing by a commemorative bust of Cudjoe outside that church, where congregants still meet and where descendants of the former slaves still live in the community. A plaque encourages “all citizens of humanity” to be like the former slaves and “choose perseverance and hope in the face of tremendous adversity.”
     That’s what we need today, isn’t it? As racism rears its ugly head again and tempers boil over, can we choose perseverance and hope?
     For the sake of Cudjoe, I hope so.

How Do I Choose My Battles?

5/26/2020

Look closely, and you’ll spot me hiding in the roots of an oak tree where Confederate soldiers sought shelter after Yankees captured Fort Blakeley in Alabama. Unbeknownst to the Rebels, General Robert E. Lee had already surrendered. The Civil War was over. But because they didn’t know this, about 225 men from both sides died and 650 were injured.
     It was senseless, which is how some of the battles I engage in tend to be. Verbal battles to make sure my voice is heard. Or to get my point across. Or just to vent.
     At this last major skirmish of the Civil War, Union Brigadier General Christopher Columbus Andrews described the conflict as “picturesque and grand.” Yet it was pointless. And now as I viewed this field where soldiers died, folks in t-shirts and shorts walked dogs and pedaled bikes. Where Confederates hid in tree roots, visitors snapped photos. A bloody battleground had turned into a placid park.
     That’s something for me to keep in mind: to choose my battles carefully; to determine whether something is worth fighting over; and to consider whether I can preemptively turn a field of conflict into a pastoral setting.
  Because some battles aren’t worth fighting.

I Gave My Daughter the Predisposition for Cancer - And She Got It!

5/21/2020

I gave my daughter the predisposition for cancer - and she got it.    This is not the legacy I wanted to leave.
     Ashley was diagnosed with cancer at age thirty-seven just before the birth of her second child. My husband Duane and I ran some genetic testing to see where this propensity came from, and I learned I’m the one who passed a mutant gene on to her. So I’m the mutant, but not a ninja.
     I felt wretched and apologized to Ashley for what she is experiencing - chemo sickness, hair loss, and all the uncertainty of the future. But she graciously reminded me it wasn’t my fault. This weakness was genetically passed on to me, too.
     It’s true. We inherit our chromosomes from our ancestors, getting things like our hair and eye color.
     However, sometimes we receive crummy-zomes. It’s part of the brokenness of this world, a shattering that occurred when our first ancestors turned their backs on Goodness in the Garden of Eden, saying they wanted more.
     But there’s hope. In the first century, Paul of Tarsus wrote that this whole world - from ecology to biology - yearns to be remastered. Don’t you feel that longing in your soul for things to be made right? The great news is that the Creator has inaugurated the re-creation of everything, and we can join him in that process. Jazz great Nina Simone captured this vision in “There’s a New World Coming,” and I invite you to listen to it.

If Table Clutter Could Talk...

5/18/2020

If the clutter on the table at our daughter’s home could talk, what story would it tell?
     A pacifier - that’s Eve’s, a tawny-haired two-month-old who gets drunk on milk until her eyes roll back and she’s lost in la-la land.
     A fire rescue truck - that’s Oak’s, the two-year-old brother of Eve who moves at warp speed around the house as he creates his own “fires” and needs rescuing.
     A book on cancer - that’s our daughter Ashley’s, the mother of Eve and Oak. A week before Eve was born, Ashley learned she has cancer. She waited until Eve arrived, then began four months of chemotherapy.
     Objects not on the table: a computer belonging to Steve, Ashley’s scientist husband - sometimes he works from home these days; also not in this picture are Duane’s and my luggage - we flew from Denver in masks to arrive in Alabama to help.
     Charles Dickens once wrote, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Can that be true in this situation? We have the threat of covid outside, the threat of cancer inside. Yet we experience remarkable times. Like the night before a chemo session, we danced around the table to Hank Williams’ singing “Jambalaya,” and then sat down to a meal of the Cajun dish provided by caring friends.
     Dickens was right: it can be the best of times, if we MAKE it that way.

How Will We Pick Up the Pieces of Our Broken Lives?

5/13/2020

When I spotted this broken phone along a hiking trail, I thought about how our lives have been trampled upon by coronavirus: lost jobs, lost businesses, lost graduations, lost wedding celebrations.
     And lost lives.
     How easy it was in the past for us to believe that we are masters of our fate, captains of our souls. How wrong we were.
     And how easy it was to be sidetracked from what’s important. Henri J.M. Nouwen, a Dutch professor who wrote on modern spirituality, said, “…we move through life in such a distracted way that we do not even take the time and rest to wonder if any of the things we think, say, or do are worth thinking, saying or doing. We simply go along with the many ‘musts’ and ‘oughts’ that have been handed on to us.”
     I hope to live more mindfully now, grateful for little things I once took for granted, like walking down the block and greeting neighbors from closer than six feet when it’s safe.
     Twenty-seven hundred years ago, a Hebrew named Micah said that God commends those who practice justice and mercy while walking humbly with God. Perhaps in the past we’ve focused on the justice and mercy part, but didn’t fully acknowledge our true source of life. Perhaps we forgot that even the simplest gifts are from God.
  As we gradually pick up the pieces of our lives, may our vision become as crystal-clear as the number of this year - 2020.