A Reading, A Homecoming
Natalie Devora at the family reunion in Louisiana
Reading from my Memoir at the Family Reunion in Louisiana
Thank you all for your patience. I know you have awaited an update about the reading from my memoir Black Girl White Skin: A Life in Storiesat the family reunion.
I opted out of the excursions that day. After breakfast, I spent time talking with cousins while also working on the evening program with Cousin Vivian. Eventually I returned to quiet of my room. I napped for a little while. My skin was tired before I understood why; sun damage disguised as fatigue. I let the quiet hold me.
In the afternoon, I read the passage aloud to myself first. It had been years since I'd spoken these words. "One Child" still carried its old intensity, still asked something of the room it entered. I wanted to offer a window, not a wound. I trimmed what needed trimming. How I share my work holds equal importance with what I actually choose to read. Additionally, I have a responsibility to myself for my wellbeing, especially given the personal nature of my work. This, too, is the writer's work; not only what we say, but how gently can share our truth so we do not traumatize the audience in the process.
I donned my favorite Kenyan dress, reminded myself of my commitment to be present, took several deep breaths, hoisted my light-yellow Shakespeare and Co tote filled with books onto my shoulder, and headed down to the banquet.
I sat among cousins. I barely touched my dinner — the old, familiar nervousness that visits before anything that matters. During a quiet moment, I said a prayer for my biological mother, who never found the courage to speak her own truth. I read for her. I read for the girl in her, and the girl in me, neither of us fully protected. I was reading for the inner teenager in us both who somehow held on, when survival was not guaranteed. And I read for this family, hoping to create a new legacy of radical truth that might become the beginning of a more healing tomorrow for all of us.
At the podium, I looked out at faces both eager and bracing. I told them this was the first time I'd read for family, that this vulnerability was new, even for me. I named what I'd share, and what I would hold close. I created a container, so to speak. I told my eager audience that I would discuss writing process, writing life, but I would not discuss particulars of personal trauma.
That structure was what let me feel safe enough to be seen, let my story find the audience it deserved.
Then I read. And something opened in the room.
The questions afterward moved beyond the page: into process, into the writing life, into how story travels with me even when I travel. The books sold out. But what stayed with me most were the conversations that followed, spreading out across generations of the same family, suddenly hearing my story as one people.
Since returning from the reunion, I have embraced that the Lester Shaw side of the family was definitely the right group to share my work with. I know now that the Lester Shaw family was exactly who needed to hear this. And I return to my desk transformed in the best way possible; I am reminded that vulnerability, shared with intention, with authenticity, doesn't diminish us. In fact, it does the opposite, for it is often the very thing that lets us finally be seen.
Editor’s Note: Reading Natalie’s memoir, Black Girl, White Skin, in its entirety, will offer the rich context that the author shares in searing authenticity and transparency.
