Many people believe that Virginia is not the South.
But I am from the coast, on the Carolina line,
and I grew up across the street from the Great Dismal Swamp.
My hometown has a cotton gin in it.
And for you Northerners, it's for processing cotton.
(laughter)
My family has lived in the same small town
for almost 150 years.
And so there are some traditions that are really dear
to members of my community.
And those traditions are no more stronger
than when it's New Year's.
And because no one understands genteel misogyny
quite like a Southern girl... (laughter)
...the first person who comes to your house on New Year's Day
has to be a dark-haired man.
The second is, you must have black-eyed peas.
Because those little eyes on the peas
can see into the future
and hopefully bring you good fortune.
And third, you must have collard greens.
Because the shredded collard greens look just like money.
And you can get a bag, a garbage bag,
of collard greens
for under ten dollars.
I come from a long line
of soil workers.
And by the way, that's not code for slavery.
I come from a long line of soil workers.
And I love my garden.
I'm an avid gardener.
I love digging holes and planting things in there.
I kind of take seeds out, and I say,
"Go be with God, little plant."
I love weeding on my hands and knees.
There's nothing I love more.
It's dirt therapy.
It is the time when I feel closest to my ancestors.
But as spring became summer, and summer became fall,
and fall became winter,
I could not attend to my garden.
(sighs)
It was New Year's, and my dad had been dead for three weeks.
And I spent all of my time driving and training
and flying between Virginia and Massachusetts
to care for him and to try to keep him, in vain,
on this side of the veil.
And my father and I have a very complicated relationship.
And you may have noticed that I switched tense.
Because I don't know, if anyone has lost a parent,
but there's something so dislocating
about the death of a parent.
Do you use present tense?
Do you use past tense?
I talk to my father's ghost.
What tense do you use for that one?
You know, so my dad and I are complicated.
When I was two or three, I started reading on my own.
When I was around six,
I realized that my dad did not enjoy reading with me.
When I was in my 20s,
I realized that my dad was probably dyslexic.
But we bonded eventually over our mutual love
of stealing inconsequential things.
(laughter)
My personal fave is pens.
When I was a child,
not a single steak knife in the house matched,
because he'd taken them
from either Shoney's Big Boy, or the Howard Johnson's,
where he'd stop by on his second job.
Every white towel in the house said "Holiday Inn" on them
in green letters.
And my dad loved my stories.
So I'd call him up, me in Massachusetts
and him in Virginia,
and I'd be, like, "Dad, there's snow on the ground,
like, two inches."
And he'd be, like, "Oh.
You got a lot of snow up there."
Two inches.
Or I'd call him because the census came out,
and my tiny village of 1,100,
I'd be, like, "Dad, I bet
I'm the only black adult living here."
And he'd be, like, "Oh, now, you're surrounded
by white people."
(laughter)
And I would, you know, call him up and tell him
what I'm growing in my garden,
and he'd act like growing your own parsley
was a revolutionary act.
(exhales)
But it was New Year's, and I was at a loss.
I did not know what to do.
So I had driven up from Virginia,
and I had decided that I was not
going to dodge my heritage that day.
And I pull up into the parking lot,
and the snowplow guy had done exactly
what I'd told him not to do.
And he piled up this huge berm of snow
in front of my garden.
So I get a garbage... I get a shopping bag out of the car,
and I go over to the garden.
And the garden is a mess-- it's a disaster.
But there are collard greens that I grew,
because I... you know, you've got to think of home.
There's a kind of collard green called Vates
that was made in Virginia.
And so I grow those.
And they get really big, and they get, like,
six feet tall, and the leaves are gigantic.
And... but it is winter, a New England winter.
And so I go up over the snow berm
to the collard greens, and the leaves are leathery,
and they're full of holes.
And not only are they full of holes,
they're covered with caterpillar poop,
because they partied while I ignored the garden.
And then there are dead caterpillars on the leaves,
and I'm rapidly defrosting them with the heat of my hands.
But I am still determined.
Because death will not win this day.
So I'm pulling on those leathery leaves.
And then I'm pulling and tugging and pulling
and tugging and pulling and tugging
until I end up elbow over tea kettle
in the snowbank.
And I'm looking up at the sky, and I start to laugh.
Because it's the kind of story I would tell my dad.
And then I start to cry, because he's not here.
Eventually, I get up and wipe the snow off my butt
and I remember that my dad and I both keep knives
in our cars.
(laughter)
So I go to the car, and I get my car knife,
and go back over the snow berm. (laughter)
I do have a car knife.
Go back over the snow berm, and I start cutting leaves.
And I have enough leaves to fill the bag.
And I go back inside, wash them off, of course.
And then I have, in the oven, cornbread, family recipe.
Don't ask-- I won't tell you.
I have on the pot, on the stove, a pot of beans
stolen from my father's stash.
And then I have enough collard greens
to make a separate pot.
And I have the meal.
And my dad was right--
collard greens are always sweetest after a hard frost.
Thank you.
(cheers and applause)