Catching Magic: The Importance of Affrilachian Representation in Children's Books

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• Catching Magic:The Importance of Affrilachian Representation in Children's Books
• Tonya Abari (bio)

When I was six years old, I labeled a Mason jar "magic" and stashed it beneath my bed. It was for catching lightning bugs. A few of my classmates who spent summers down South boasted of evenings with their grandparents and the fireflies. I didn't know any of my extended family down South, and I also didn't have a relationship with my grandparents. However, I was ecstatic that, in addition to blue crabs and humidity, even Baltimore had lightning bugs.

I'd catch fireflies one-by-one, watching the light flicker against my cocoa-buttered palms. Then I'd slide as many as I could into the 32 oz. glass jar. I marveled at their conspicuous glow and interpreted the light beneath their soft bellies as only a six-year-old would.

"They're making magic," I'd say to Ma, who only wanted me to "let the flies free and do more girly things" like play with dolls or her Fashion Fair makeup.

As I grew older, the fireflies seemed to disappear. I'd like to think it has something to do with climate change, but I also know that my desire for catching lightning bugs was swallowed whole by the process of growing up way earlier than I'd wished. City lights, noisy buses, penny candy stores, corner boys, and extra tall buildings that soaked up the skyline were the backdrop of my adolescence. The youthful innocence of glow-in-the-dark beetles just didn't seem to fit into the daily grind of "making it" in Baltimore. I was taught early that survival took precedence over catching magic.

Geographically, I was born in a city near the Appalachian region, but Baltimore isn't considered as part of it. However, the region includes areas of Mid-Atlantic states Maryland and Pennsylvania, and when I learned that Pittsburgh was Appalachia, I immediately thought about how the two blue-collared cities—Baltimore and Pittsburgh—were more alike than different. And in middle school, I placed a post-it note on a map of Pittsburgh in my textbook. I was enamored with descriptions of Appalachian life—a slower pace, farm-to-table food, foraging and canning, crisp mountain air, and a quiet that is often missing from major cities. However, I wondered why the descriptions in our textbooks didn't include the Black folks living there.

"Why do you care so much about them mountains? I bet it ain't no Black people there!" a classmate inquired. Judging by that whitewashed textbook, she was right. I couldn't confirm or deny if there were Black folks in Appalachia. I've always known that we are everywhere, but the books we were given in school showed no proof. [End Page 160]

In my late twenties, my husband's career as a football administrator landed us in another city on the edge of Appalachia. As we drove through the rolling hills of Tennessee, we explored greenways, hiked trails, and learned about the history of the Cumberland Plateau. As I intentionally mined information about Black residents of the region, I was introduced to Affrilachia by Frank X Walker—and reading this book of poetry was affirming and eye opening. I knew of the matriarchs, the wishbones, and penny candy stores because those roots made their way to Baltimore during the Great Migration. But I wasn't as familiar with snapping turtles, porcupines, and spiritual healing that were also ingrained in the fabric of Black Appalachia.

We've now lived in Tennessee for 12 years. Both my children were born here. And before they arrived earthside, I knew I didn't want them to depend on watered-down history books to learn their history. I wanted them to learn about Affrilachia from us. I am fully aware that the books we read to our children will be integral in shaping their consciousness. And in the past few years, there are a few children's books that I've read frequently to my young daughters over and over again—and that will forever be in rotation and conversations about Affrilachia...