Holly Springs, Miss., a city of 7,000 residents, lies 56 miles southeast of Memphis. It was once a lively center of the cotton trade, and as I recently learned from a newfound cousin, it is also where my enslaved ancestors lived.
When I was a child, I knew my great-grandfather on my mother’s side, and I have decades of memories, stories and photographic evidence of my Jewish maternal family. My Black paternal family has always been more of a mystery. I’ve never known my father, so I was thrilled when several years ago I obtained a family tree that dates back to 1824 — and even more excited when my cousin claimed to know specifically where our ancestors had lived.
On a recent business trip to Memphis, I flew in early so that I could explore Holly Springs in search of my ancestral home. My first stop was City Hall, where I tried, to no avail, to find relevant public records. Then I met up with Jamie, a friend who lived in the area, and we set out on a drive.
I was hoping my cousin would text me with more detail, but my phone remained quiet. Through the car window I kept seeing signs for a local tourist attraction, the Ida B. Wells Museum. Soon we passed a small building that had a sign out front reading, simply, “Museum.”
We got out of the car and walked toward the entryway. From inside, a voice belted out an inquisitive hello. Bright sunlight filled the tall windows, illuminating a layer of dust on the glass countertops. The silence of the place made it feel more like a private home than a museum.
In a city with a majority Black population, and in a museum dedicated to its most celebrated figure — the Black educator and journalist Ida B. Wells — I was surprised to find that the proprietor was a white man. Then I scolded myself, attempting to shake off my New York City biases, and I jumped into my well-rehearsed mission statement.
“I’m looking for my ancestral home,” I began. “My enslaved ancestors lived in Holly Springs, and I have an old address — their first home as free people in 1870.”
I went on to explain that the address was no longer on any map, and that no one at City Hall had been able to help.
“My cousin claims to have the current address,” I continued, “but I don’t know her well, and she hasn’t gotten back to me.”
A wall full of flags from centuries past grabbed my attention with their faded red and white stripes. My heart leaped with panic when my eyes locked on the red Confederate flag — but then I remembered where I was, and the context quickly shifted my thinking.
Several years ago, I had been shocked when, at the African American Museum in Dallas, I encountered a Ku Klux Klan robe and hood. Its empty eye holes seemed to be staring right into me. In the context of the museum, though, my body relaxed. It was important, I learned, to sometimes use these symbols as reminders of the horror that so many people endured.
The proprietor, an older man with white hair, asked for my last name and the 1870 address. Then he nodded and walked slowly across a room in which every surface was covered with photographs and other yet-to-be processed artifacts. As I stared again at the Confederate flag, Jamie, who had been quietly exploring the place on his own, moved in close and whispered slowly and clearly:
“I don’t think this is the Ida B. Wells Museum.”
A much larger Confederate flag grabbed my attention, then another, this one flanked by two mannequins dressed in gray Confederate soldier uniforms. When I completed my silent spin around the room, Jamie’s statement sank in, and the air grew thick with menace.
I had felt confident a few moments earlier, when I was under the impression that I was visiting the Ida B. Wells Museum. Now that I realized we had entered the wrong place, I felt threatened — and deeply concerned about how the man viewed me.
I saw rifles on the walls and vintage portraits of grim-faced white men. My gut jumped when, directly in front of me, I saw a faded inscription that read: “Mein Kampf I & II: Autobiography of Adolf Hitler and the Third Reich.” A piece of shiny, round cloth displaying a gigantic black swastika covered the books. That’s when my heart rate increased and my mouth swelled with the metallic taste of fear. A high-pitched ringing in my ears was the final signal from my Black, Jewish body: Get out. Now.
Jamie’s presence was reassuring — he was white, and he had grown up in Mississippi. Still, there was only so much we could do, trapped inside an armory devoted to the bad guys of two different wars.
I tried to appear casual, pushing up my glasses as I moved toward the exit. The click of Jamie’s camera shutter broke the silence, and I looked up to see him taking a picture of me. His face said: This is not a fun moment, but I know you’ll want to see it later.
Later, I thought. I no longer cared about how the proprietor might be able to help me. I was now focused on the importance of continuing to exist.
The man, who seemed friendly enough, was tapping away on a computer in the next room. But it could have been an act. He could have quietly made a phone call, or sent a text warning of intruders.
As my body moved toward the door in slow, calculated motion, I imagined an old pickup truck screeching to a halt outside, its bed full of men squinting in the afternoon sun.
“James William Ayers?”
The proprietor’s voice reverberated from the other room, sending a jolt of lightning through me. My brow furrowed as I considered the name he had shouted.
“Yes,” I said tentatively. “That’s my great-great-grandfather’s name.”
I tapped my phone, calling up my family tree.
“Born 1870, Benton County, Mississippi?” the man said.
“That’s him,” I replied, feeling the fear flush from my body.
My steps felt suddenly light as I walked into his office to see him staring intently at his screen. There was no screeching pickup truck, only the clicks of his continued typing. How, I wondered, could he have found this information so quickly, when others who ostensibly had more access could not?
Just then my phone vibrated with a text from my cousin. She had sent photographs of an old house followed by several messages that ended with street coordinates. I wondered if the timing of her text meant it was actually my ancestors sending a message, wanting themselves — not the man with the swastika collection — to be the custodians of our family history.
“That’s about six blocks from here,” the proprietor said in a hopeful tone. “You’re right here.” He circled our location on a tourist map. Then he dragged his pen slowly across the page. “And this is where James William lived.”
He then took an unnecessarily long time explaining which route to take. I let him talk. He had deliberately and respectfully called my ancestor by his name. I could feel his excitement, and I wanted to live in this moment.
Jamie drove slowly for those six blocks, giving me time to reflect on the emotional roller coaster I’d just ridden.
Safely on the road, I wondered what the man in the museum thought of me. Was I someone who threatened his way of life, someone who perhaps should still be enslaved? The opposite felt more likely — that he felt a connection because of our shared roots in Holly Springs.
Jamie let me stew in thought as he drove. I scrolled through the photographs I had snapped in the museum as we glided by a few quiet intersections and approached the peaceful, wooded area where my ancestors had lived.
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