Not Far from the Tree🌳

Start with yourself and then work back. Most trainer’s in genealogy research will tell you this.

I was placed in foster care twice. The first time my mom got sick I was eighteen months of age. I don’t recall much just bits and pieces, but my older siblings and I did stay together as a family unit in one foster home for a matter of months before being returned home to our parents. The second time I was five, and this time me and my siblings were separated.

Me with the Farrington’s circa 1969: Standing from l-r Alvin Harrington, Hilliard Dennis Roebuck; Harold Farrington, Dwayne, Carol Farrington, seated Victor Alphonso Farrington, with me on his lap, and Rosella Farrington with Roxine Farrington on her lap. My biological brother Dennis stands above Victor Farrington.

I would live there for the next six years. At that early age, I knew who my mom and dad were, and so of course, I could recognize them both when I’d see them each year, they were always present in my life. Still as we know recognition of, and knowing about, someone are different breeds, and I can’t say I actually got to know my biological parents until I came to live with them both again, but even then only each one separately. I can’t really tell you how they were as a couple. I do recall how much I missed them, the separation anxiety, and how I would cry every night before going to sleep. They separated in 1965.

As a young adult, when my peers would boast about their nationalities along with percentages of this or that region or ethnicity, I always kept silent and when asked, all I could say was,“Im Black.” To which some of my peers would respond, “but Vickie you’re not black.” Oh but indeed I am! However, black is not all I am. My peers see black as a skin color and my shade being light coffee with cream doesn’t qualify as black to them. I see black as an experience that I, my ancestors, and people of darker hues like mine survived while being in North America. We are like the Bob Marley song, “The Black Survivors.”

Born in 1962, Los Angeles, California I recall the Watts Riots. I don’t recall knowing what was going on then, but I can recall being afraid as the National Guard were called in, and in my little girl memory they were big men with guns, and speckled suits (camouflage) who spoke sternly to us to keep moving at a car check point. I felt safe though. We were with my mom at the time on our way to a family member’s home, riding in a car to get out of the city, that had exploded into chaos.

Second add your parents: Add as much information as you know.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.