By Monique Norington Joseph
This Fourth of July feels different.
Like millions of Americans, I’ll watch fireworks, spend time with family, and celebrate another birthday of this remarkable nation.
But this year…
I’ll also be thinking about my fifth great-grandfather, Hawkins “Hawk” Bowman.
Hawk was born around 1790.
Just fourteen years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
Just three years after the United States Constitution was ratified.
Think about that for a moment.
America was still trying to figure out who she was.
The nation was young.
Hopeful.
Imperfect.
Still defining freedom.
Still wrestling with identity.
Still becoming.
And so was my family.
For the last twelve years, I’ve immersed myself in genealogy, trying to understand the people whose lives eventually made mine possible.
What began with a DNA test became thousands of hours spent reading census records, military documents, land deeds, church records, Cherokee applications, and faded family photographs.
It became phone calls with cousins I had never met.
Road trips through Appalachia.
Family reunions.
Conversations with elders.
And somewhere along the way, I realized something.
My family’s story isn’t separate from the American story.
It is the American story.
Like so many families, ours was shaped by the mountains of Appalachia, by Native homelands, by African resilience, by European settlement, by hope, hardship, perseverance, and love.
We are Appalachian.
We are Indigenous.
We are African.
We are European.
Our family, like America itself, cannot be understood through just one story.
It is many stories woven together.
For generations, my ancestors simply tried to build a life.
They raised children.
Worked the land.
Buried loved ones.
Adapted when the world around them changed.
They didn’t know someone would one day search for them.
They didn’t know their names would be spoken over two hundred years later.
They had no idea their ordinary lives would become an extraordinary legacy.
As much as I admire Hawk Bowman, this journey has taught me that our family wasn’t carried by one man.
It was carried by women.
Women like Eliza.
Almeda.
Miss Mary.
Lucy.
Women whose names rarely appeared in history books but whose strength shaped generations.
They were the keepers of recipes.
The keepers of family Bibles.
The keepers of stories.
The ones who remembered who belonged to whom.
The ones who whispered names so they wouldn’t be forgotten.
Long before there were genealogy websites…
There was Grandma.
There was Auntie.
There was a great-grandmother sitting on a front porch who knew every branch of the family tree by heart.
Today, many of those voices are still with us.
Many of us still have a grandmother.
A great-aunt.
An uncle.
An elder cousin.
Someone who remembers.
Someone whose stories have never been written down.
And yet, we wait.
We tell ourselves we’ll ask another day.
We’ll visit next month.
We’ll record those stories someday.
But someday has a way of becoming too late.
If these last twelve years have taught me anything, it is this:
Every elder is a living library.
Every family gathering is an archive.
Every conversation is history waiting to be preserved.
This Fourth of July, while we celebrate the birth of our country, I hope we also celebrate the people who built our families.
Because whether your ancestors arrived on the Mayflower…
Whether they were forced here in chains…
Whether they walked these lands long before there was a United States…
Whether they came seeking opportunity generations later…
Their blood, their sweat, their sacrifices, and their dreams helped shape this country.
Our stories belong here.
Our families belong here.
We belong here.
America’s story is not complete without all of us.
So today…
Before the fireworks begin…
Call your grandmother.
Visit your great-aunt.
Sit beside your grandfather.
Ask your uncle where your family came from.
Write down the names.
Record the stories.
Save the photographs.
Because one day, someone in your family will want to know.
Maybe it will be your daughter.
Maybe your grandson.
Maybe someone not yet born.
And they will thank you for preserving what could have been lost.
As I prepare to release This Well Runs Deep later this summer, I’ve come to understand that genealogy isn’t really about looking backward.
It’s about making sure the generations ahead know whose shoulders they stand on.
So today, I celebrate America.
But even more than that…
I celebrate the ordinary families who built extraordinary lives alongside a young nation.
Happy Birthday, America.
And to Hawk Bowman…
To Almeda Cole…
To Eliza…
To Lucy…
And to every ancestor whose courage became someone else’s beginning—
Thank you.
Your well still runs deep.
