The Point of Reflection

The Name

My Grandfather was an only child. My father was raised an only child, though he had an older brother and sister, both of whom were already out of the house by the time my father was nine, and neither of them would share his last name. So when my father passed in 2019, my son and I became the last Calhoun men in the family. Or so we believed.

My Father was born to a single mother and a married man. He was raised by his mother alone until she died. He was only nine years old. My Great Grandmother Arbella Jones, whom I had the great privilege of knowing, had the wisdom to insisted that her son, Clarence Calhoun, take responsibility for raising his only son. So from nine years on, my dad went to live with his Father, his Step Mother Alice, the only Grandmother I ever knew, and his Grandmother, Arbella. Though his birth certificate says Clarence Myers, he was called Clarence Calhoun Jr. from that day on.

More Than A Name

One day my wife was looking around on Ancestry, when she came across my Grandfather’s and my Great Grandmother’s names on a stranger’s family tree. They were on branches of the tree traced through the line of Fred Calhoun, my Great Grandmother’s first husband.

Fred Calhoun was a mist in my mind. I knew of him, but he had no form or substance. I had always assumed he died, and that Arbella had remarried after his death. In my thinking, the probability of African Americans being afforded the means to legally divorce, at that time, was so low as to render it an impossibility, though that’s indeed what happened. In my youthful thinking, if I didn’t see you at holidays or funerals, you just weren’t family. Fred Calhoun was my Great Grandfather, but he was far enough away from me that he was only a name. But my wife’s discovery had given form to the mist; a body to the name.

As it turns out, my son and I are not the last Calhoun men left. Though we didn’t find other children born to Fred, he did have a number of brothers and sisters whose offspring are many. Including the husband of the creator of that family tree. They are out there, and they are my kin. I still don’t know quite how to feel about the news. Sure, I am excited to know we’re not the last Calhouns, but I’ve also been paralyzed by the even greater discovery found in that family tree.

The History

The family tree had traced the Calhoun clan back to a plantation in Pickens County South Carolina. Fred was the son of Frederick and Dorcus Calhoun, who were the property of one listed as Floride Calhoun. At first, that name meant nothing to me, except to further confuse my feelings about my newly discovered roots being firm planted in the soil of slavery. Most of us carry lightly the notion of descending from slaves, but the weight of it becoming more than a notion, is not so lightly carried. There is a tangible weight that accompanies the reality; a gravity; a sobriety.

The name would take on even greater meaning one Saturday morning while watching college football. Clemson University, in Clemson South Carolina, was playing a game that quickly faded into insignificance, when the game announcer mentioned that there were two former Clemson football players participating in a protest to remove the name of an historic slave owner from one of the buildings on campus. That slave owners name was John C. Calhoun. The name and the State collided in my head, forcing me to my feet. I rushed to see if there was a connection.

I was stunned to find that John C. Calhoun was the husband of Floride Calhoun. I was further surprised to discover that the land that is now Clemson University was given by John C. and Floride’s daughter, Anna and her husband Thomas Clemson. In fact, the Calhoun plantation home, the plantation my Great Great Grandparents worked as slaves, is preserved on the campus of the University. And the last stunner, for all of you, like me, who didn’t immediately recognize the name, John C. Calhoun was a United States Senator and the 7th Vice President of the United States. How sobering is that?

What’s In A Name

I have proudly carried the name Calhoun, and I image I always will. I’ve tried to teach my son to carry it proudly, and I hope he always will. It was my Father’s name; my Grandfather’s name. But it was also John C’s name. It came to us, not through the natural striving of family to exist as free persons, but as a tag of ownership. But you can’t live honestly and ignore the parts of your own history that you’re not proud of.

John C. Calhoun is often called the father of the Civil War, although he died 11 years before it began. He is credited with giving the South the language of State’s rights, which they would later use to justify secession and the South’s most profitable institution. And it’s his name I still bear.

The name, my name, carries the legacy of a wise Great Grandmother and also the legacy of slavery and one of its notable defenders. They are both there, and I must carry them both. Of one I am very proud, the other, not so much. Honestly, I don’t always carry them both well. The two are often in conflict within me.

We are reminded often that slavery is a thing of the distant past, and that to continue to dredge it up only leads to division. Yet its vestiges are always there, preserved, memorialized, even celebrated. It shows up in places we don’t expect, colliding with our modern thoughts of the world; disturbing our attempts to get on with our lives. I carry it with me, now more than ever.

I’m relieved that my son and I are not the last Calhoun men left; that we are a part of a bigger story. When I understand my feeling better and can gain some measure of equilibrium, I will seek out my family out there. Meanwhile, I rest in knowing that we are not alone, that there are Calhouns out there, striving as family to exist as free persons.

Blessings