Inheritance

A poem by Faith Walker

Inheritance: A Memoir

By Faith Walker

In my ninth grade biology class, we drew Punnett squares, tracing the inheritance of dominant and recessive genes. I found it a fascinating exercise, wondering what it is I have inherited from my mother, who everyone has always told me I favor. I wondered if she is the cause of my poor eyesight, the color of my hair, the set of my jaw. That year set up the worst fights we would ever have - her screaming at me to pack a bag while she decided if I was still allowed to live in her house or not, overturned baskets and broken snow globes and thrown books, my father pulling her off me as her hand stings against my cheek. I wonder now if this is what I inherited from her: a capacity to deeply hurt the people I love. A burning temper. A streak of cruelty.

Punnett squares are part of the ninth-grade curriculum in the state of Alabama. Ninth grade was the last year of schooling my mother did in Alabama. I can imagine her, sitting at a school desk, puzzling over what she inherited from her own mother. The shape of her nose, the color of her hair, her height.

Before she died, my grandmother didn’t speak to my mother, her only daughter, for almost a year. She didn’t leave my mother anything in her will. I wonder what my mother would classify as her inheritance now: a strict worldview, a stubbornness, an inability to apologize. Does she ever wonder if she passed any of this inheritance down to her own daughter?

Before her death, I called my grandmother every week. During one of our last conversations she fussed, as she often did, over her poor, unmarried granddaughter, now closer to thirty than twenty. She told me she wanted to see me settle down and get married before she dies, that I’m old enough that I need to be getting serious about having children. I scoffed at the idea. I had told her repeatedly, since I was a young girl, that I don’t want kids. My mother didn’t want kids, I pointed out to her. You didn’t want kids. She countered the same way every time: and we both had children. I never tell her to look at how that turned out for the two of them, but the thought hangs heavy over our conversations. I remind her, again, that I don’t want children, that I’m fine by myself. She lets out a long sigh, and then says, “Don’t have kids if you don’t want them. I want you to do whatever makes you happy. But I think you would be a good mother.”

She pauses, and before I can think of what to say, she says, so softly that I almost don’t hear her, “Sometimes I wonder where you came from. You’re a kind woman. You’re not like the rest of us.”

This poem was written by Faith Walker, and read at In Her Own Words on April 22nd. To follow her work and support her, you can find:

• Follow her on IG @_faith__walker_ (that’s a double underscore in the middle).

• You can purchase her work in Where Despair Runs Deep & Hope’s Embrace Will Keep My Head Above Water: An Anthology of South Carolina Poets.

• To keep up with her current work join her at the writing programs at the Charleston Main Library, as she’s usually either running or attending those! They can be found at this link: https://ccplsc.libcal.com/calendar?cid=-1&t=m&d=0000-00-00&cal=-1&cm=8119&inc=0

Twice a month, Revisionist Magazine Substack will repost work from our “In Her Own Words,” events as well as previous submissions to the magazine, with the permission of the author.