I'm a fan of NBC's Who Do You Think You Are. I've always enjoyed history, especially that of black folks, and the recovery of lost narratives. Who Do You Think You Are is a helluva marketing ploy for the Ancestry.com website. I bit and signed up.  


I'm a military brat and have lived a little bit of everywhere, but Albany, GA is where my heart is. Literally. Not on some Davey Jones' Pirates of the Caribbean type shit, but my grandmother, my Nana boo, still lives in the 'Bany. I've always had an inexplicable connection with my grandmother, and she'll be the first to tell you that I was her baby before my parents knew if I was a boy or a girl. Anyway, my grandparents stressed the importance of family and remaining in touch with my ruts - roots, for you non-southern folks. I knew I was a Georgia girl on my dad's side of the family. My Paw Paw and his folks were from up in Jackson County, near Athens, Georgia. My Nana boo and her people were from Calhoun County, Leary, Georgia.  


What started as a light activity for a dreary Saturday afternoon became an entire weekend of obsessive research. I had to find out what happened to Phil Barkley, my great-grandfather. 



My great-grandfather's murder is one of the most heart wrenching stories my Nana boo shared with me. It was a story of ignorance and hatred. Phil Barkley was stabbed to death at a gas station by a white guy that he supervised at work. I always felt a slow burn as I listened to Nana boo tell the story, wishing I could whoop this anonymous white man's ass for my grandmother and great-grandmother's sake; my Nana boo was only a baby when he died.  


I went to work. I typed in Phil Barkley and waited for a little green leaf to flutter on my screen as an indicator of new information. Phil Barkley's box stayed deathly still. I grew frustrated. Suddenly, a green leaf fluttered for my great-grandmother, Mary Jones Barkley, AKA Ma Mary. I clicked it and two census records popped up: 1920 and 1930. I eagerly clicked the 1920 file. I saw a sloppily written list of names, ages, and occupations, hunting for "Barkley." There he was, Phil Barkley. Twenty-Eight Years old. House full of kids. Worker. Literate. Renting his house. Powerful, powerful stuff. My Nana boo's folks lived in Leary, Georgia, the backwoods, where illiteracy was it for black folks.  My great-grandfather could read and write. Very well, as I would see later - he filled out the death certificate for his son, Fred, in 1924.  I felt a pride swell in my chest that matched the way I felt when I would stretch my spine to match my Paw Paw's awesomeness. 


I clicked the 1930 census file. Searched for Barkley. Saw Ma Mary, no Phil. There was a "w" by Ma Mary's name for widow. I got misty eyed. My two main clues were my Nana boo's story and this census record. He died between 1920 and 1930, actual death date unknown.


I was reaching for straws. My grandmother's age is kept at Fort Knox, so I have no clue how old she is. A ten year age gap is huge! I searched the website for Phil Barkley's death certificate. Nothing. 


After taking a break, I went back to looking for my great-grandfather's death certificate. I knew finding a birth certificate was probably a lost cause - white folks at the hospitals didn't keep accurate records of African American births. As I harassed Google for new methods of research, I came across a Georgia death certificate database that stored records from 1919-1998. I clicked and put in my great-grandfather's name. His name was the first to pop up. Phil Barkley, from Calhoun County, Leary, Georgia. Born May 1891. Date of death: December 30, 1926. Damn. My grandfather died a few months before his 36th birthday.


I saved a copy and took a closer look. Born in Calhoun County. Died in Albany, Georgia. Cause: illegible. 
I couldn't read the cause of death to save my life. I pulled out the cell phone, pressed "2," and waited for Nana boo to pick up. I told her I found her daddy's death certificate. There was a brief moment of silence on the other end and a sigh. 
"Really, Gina Lou?"
"Yes ma'am. Phil Barkley. He died Dec. 30 1926."
"I didn't know that. Does it say how he died?"
"There's a cause here. I think I made out knife, but I can't read the rest of it."
"Well, I seriously doubt they would give the actual reason for his death. White folks could put whatever they wanted and it would be taken as fact."


I didn't know what to say to my grandmother after her last statement. History is made fact by whoever writes it. I thought back to the census records I saw. There were many mistakes, including ages and names. Ma Mary's name on a census record from 1900 was misspelled "May Jones." I fact checked with my Nana to make sure the other information on the record was accurate. 


My great-grandfather never got a chance to know my Nana boo or participate in her life. While I'm appreciative of the death certificate, I can't help but wonder what other information about Phil Barkley has been lost over the years due to a lack of records or simply lack of interest in a southern rural black man's life. 


My adventures in family tree-ing have reaffirmed the importance of  paying attention and recording the narratives of elders in the family. At least this way lost loves like Phil Barkley still have a home in our hearts.