The Little Girl Who Waved

July 4, 2020 came upon the world in the midst of great controversy and even greater expectations. COVID-19 has silently crept across the globe, wreaked havoc, killing family members and friends, and instilling fear all along its path. The death of a formerly unknown black American named George Floyd introduced a global refrain, “I can’t breathe,” which has become the opening chant for many organizations, who have volunteered to join a long-overdue conversation regarding the long reach of slavery upon our country’s history and its present. As a published author and one of the keepers of Southern history, I wanted to share my thoughts about our celebrated day of National Independence, but the words wouldn’t come. I wanted to write what my heart was feeling, but my heart was not speaking in a way that could be conveyed.

Adding to my conflict were the words of Frederick Douglass, spoken generations ago, which found a place in my consciousness. According to Douglass, it was a day of independence, but for those in slavery, their lives remained the same. Slavery is a complex addition to one’s life—a forever shadow that hangs over everything. When words should have been coming freely, I battled so many voices, trying to organize my thoughts, thoughts that would cause us as a nation to stand up and embrace our shared heritage and set in motion culture-changing personal actions. Remembering my days as a soldier, I could only ask myself, “Aren’t we all in this together?” To write what my heart yearned to read would take several volumes, not unlike Alexis de Tocqueville’s Democracy In America, which brought to our nation’s attention in the early 19th century the disparity that existed between what our documents said and what we as a nation actually lived out.

With the reality of COVID-19 continuing its rampage and the last words of George Floyd (“I can’t breathe!”) now becoming our first words, I had just about decided that this year, 2020, the power of the pen had eluded me. However, my head continued swirling with many random thoughts. My heart was calling for the pen to awaken our collective consciousness to take full advantage of this global moment of introspection, personally and as nations. I finally gave up and headed to my front porch, where I sat in one of our Southern rockers and focused my gaze on the aging trees whose limbs had become bent and overburdened by time.

As I allowed my prior thoughts to slowly slip away, my eyes became heavy with tears as another 4th of July, from 1995, joined me on the front porch. I was no longer thinking about the founding fathers and the acceptance of slavery as a way of life for those who looked like me. “I can’t breathe” had moved off the front porch and COVID-19 was wiped away in a flood of tears.

Twenty-five years ago, on July 4th, death invaded our lives. It was the day and the year Barbara's and my seven year-old daughter Anne Kathryn died—the saddest day in the many decades of my life. While sitting on my front porch, the memory of our little girl came back to me, and all the joy she had brought into our lives and into the lives of others washed over me anew. These memories took me back to a better place in time—memories of my little girl who lived her life to WAVE AT PEOPLE.

My apprehensions didn’t bother her. She never even noticed my fear. When Annie, as she was affectionately called by family and friends, saw any person within her range of sight, she lit up, almost jumping off my lap. “Daddy, wave!” she would say. Our front porch was back from the street and slightly on an incline. It was easy for us to see those passing by and easy for them to glance up and see us. And our Annie never missed a single person passing. Sometimes, I wanted to hold my head down and pretend I didn’t see anyone. I didn’t want Annie to know that because of who we were, others might not return her heartfelt wave. She was too young to know the history of our color. There would come a time, but not yet. I felt it was too early to start the lessons of race that I had learned as a young boy when growing up on the Mississippi Delta. For me, it was necessary to start early. For me, they were survival techniques. For me, they would become lingering lessons of race and place, which became the heart of my most recent book, The Invitation. Those lessons were learned and written on my memory in indelible ink—unable to be erased.

Annie had no idea of the world of slavery and legal segregation bequeathed to her parents. She was all about the pursuit of happiness and sharing that pursuit with anyone and everyone she could. I wanted her to remain at this place of innocent independence as long as she could. So when pressed by my little girl for me to wave at strangers, I did. She rejoiced in life and naturally brought her daddy along. She made me wave first, even when I was absolutely sure that my wave would not be returned. From our front porch, Annie waved to the world, and I watched the world wave back. I knew not to wave at joggers—they were focused on a difficult task—but not Annie. If you were passing our house—walking or running—she waved. We waved, they waved, and she was happy. Her job had been done.

Her life was short, but her joy was full. From our front porch, she experienced an America that Frederick Douglass had longed to see and Alexis de Tocqueville had traveled to experience. In her short life, she enjoyed community the way it should be: people respected, affirmed, and included each other. On our front porch, Democracy had an ally in a little girl who never thought twice about sharing her heart with others.

She always waved first.

We didn’t know many of these people by name, but only by the humanity we shared. When Annie was missing from the front porch, these strangers would see me and ask, “Where’s the little girl?” I had to tell them that our Annie was no longer with us.

She was totally unaware of slavery, of legal segregation, and of the social challenges that her parents had to face. Because of the way I had to be raised, it was hard for me to wave first if the person was white, but not for our Annie. She prized life with the innocence that only a five year old can possess.

She had come into the world to wave, and to challenge me to understand that in spite of my lingering lessons of race and place, it was alright to wave first.

Our Annie was the epitome of independence; her laughter had not been bridled. Her questions were welcomed. Color was what she saw, not what defined her and our lives. She did not see it as a burden, nor as a door-opener. She embraced the rainbow of our human existence with bubbly excitement. Our Annie loved our shared humanity. I adored her innocence independence, even though I knew that one day, it would be tempered by the reality of our history in America. She, too, would have to be pulled aside and have some well-meaning adult explain to her why sleepovers may not be the best activity for her and her friends. But for that brief moment, just slightly past the age of five, while sitting together on our long front porch, I would cautiously allow myself to enter her childhood world.

In her world, waving at everyone walking by…was simply what people did.

As I sat alone on the front porch, on another Fourth of July, some twenty-five years later, tears rolled and sadness mixed with thankfulness. The tears seemed to be telling me that it’s never too late to capture the innocent spirit of our youth and use this discovery to wave first. Sometimes, the racial problems we continuously face are so daunting that we search for answers of equal ilk. Can a FIRST WAVE start a craze that introduces us to one another? Knowing each other is a good first step, and a powerful one. Can a FIRST WAVE provide the impetus to ask for names, exchange contact information and eventually lead to the breaking of bread? Can a FIRST WAVE set the stage for racial healing long overdue—going into our mental models to embrace and discard, as our shared humanity dictates? Remembering our Annie, I am clearly reminded that Democracy still needs front porch allies.

Now I realize why words were not forthcoming when I so desperately wanted to write: I would have overlooked a childhood gesture as just something cute—when in reality, it could be a force multiplier, a catalyst, a movement in the process of building community between people. A simple, animated wave from the heart. In her “Annie Moments,” she accomplished during her short lifetime what nations still grapple with and social scientists still contemplate: how can we honestly wave at each other, even if our names are not known and our races differ, simply because we care for the life that we share?

“Daddy, this is fun!” she would say to me. And she was right. It was fun to follow her heart.

Our Anne Kathryn had no racial history to consider or hurtful incidents to move beyond. She just lived to wave, and in her childlike delight, she brought me along. From twenty-five years ago, the words finally came: wave at others with faces of joy.

It is never too late to wave first.