Who Do You Think You Are? Thomas Edge
341
“Who Do You Think You Are?”:
Examining the African-American
Experience in Slavery and Freedom
through Family History Television
Thomas Edge
In the forty years since Alex Haley’s Roots
broke new ground in popular culture’s examination of slavery, both the book and the television
miniseries served as important mileposts in the
American imagination as it pertained to AfricanAmerican history and identity. While much attention has been paid to the impact of Roots on our
national interest in genealogy, and especially on
its popularity among African Americans, it also
served as arguably the earliest example of black
family history as entertainment. Decades before
family history television would premiere, Haley’s
work established its foundations, introducing
diverse audiences to both the techniques of
genealogical research and the thrilling possibilities
of historical reclamation. In spite of the controversies over its accuracy and originality, nowhere
was this impact clearer than in its views of African-American family life: of what was possible to
unearth, of the vibrant stories that might be told,
and the effort to fill a historical void created by
the international slave trade.
In doing so, however, Roots also presented a
viewpoint of the black family in the United States
that assumed slavery as the default option. Debra
J. Dickerson noted that when Senator Harris
Wofford taught at Howard University Law
School in the 1950s, “he asked whether anyone in
his class was the descendant of slaves, and never a
hand was raised.” She contrasted that generation’s
willful ignorance of any connection with slavery
to today’s “sufferers” who “exhibit their neuroses
by claiming to be descended from slaves whether
they are or not” (8). Yet Dickerson, less than three
years after dismissing the assumed slave ancestry
of today’s “sufferers,” insisted that slavery was an
important marker of African-American racial
identity and authenticity. In response to the rise
of Barack Obama and the questions of whether he
was “black enough,” Dickerson wrote, “Black, in
our political and social vocabulary, means those
descended from West African slaves” (Coates).
Certainly, these changes are in part a reflection
of our increased scholarship on slavery itself:
black intellectuals of the 1960s “recognized that, a
century after emancipation, the story of slavery
was yet to be included, in detail, in the historical
and literary imagination of the nation,” contributing to a “general U.S. amnesia and amnesia even
within the black community about slavery” prior
to the Civil Rights Movement/Black Power era
(Keizer 74–75). Since then, Roots was simply the
Thomas Edge is a lecturer in the Department of Ethnic Studies, School of Cultural & Critical Studies at Bowling Green State University. A proud graduate of the W.E.B. Du Bois Department of Afro-American Studies at the University of Massachusetts-Amherst, he
has had his work appear in West Virginia History and the Journal of Black Studies.
The Journal of American Culture, 40:4
© 2017 Wiley Periodicals, Inc
342
The Journal of American Culture Volume 40, Number 4 December 2017
most popular text in a revolutionary process of
rethinking slavery. But that process of integrating
slavery into American history, including American family history, has been incomplete and problematic. Too often, it still takes place without
proper historical context of the African-American
experience, one that includes overlapping experiences of slavery and freedom, multiple racial identities, and complicated legacies for how people
retell that history today. Debra Dickerson’s comments reveal the tension that remains in the
twenty-first century over how African Americans
in the United States rationalize their own relationships with slavery and what it means for their
self-identities today.
It is important, then, to examine the implications of these trends in the contemporary era,
with a particular focus on the perspectives provided by family history documentaries. Over the
last two decades, the simultaneous growth of
online genealogy and family history television
have generated renewed interest in genealogy as
both an individual pursuit and as popular entertainment (Hudson and Barratt 20–21). Within an
American context, how do television shows like
Who Do You Think You Are? deal with the complex realities of slavery and freedom in the African-American experience? Do these shows also
reinforce slavery as a default option in the black
experience in the United States? How do they
explain the conditions of black life through the
nineteenth century to a lay audience that is often
painfully unaware of those histories? Perhaps
most importantly, how do the subjects of the
research feel about the stories being told, and
what do those reactions say about their own relationships to slavery, freedom, and black identity?
This research is an extension of both my professional and personal interest in the uses of
genealogy. As an academic, I utilize genealogy
and my personal family history in the classroom
to offer different perspectives on the history of
race and ethnicity in the United States. These
practices are particularly important to me as a
white academic specializing in African-American
Studies and Ethnic Studies. Just as people of color
in the academy can use their own experiences with
racist systems to highlight how these systems
work, white academics can use family history to
look at overlapping layers of oppression and domination. In my own family, I can look at those
who have been victims of xenophobia, and those
who have perpetuated it: Northern slaveholders
and Northern indentured servants; soldiers who
fought in the Civil War, and widows from that
conflict who earned more from Army pensions
than did active-duty African-American soldiers.
Extending this to family history television, AnneMarie Kramer points to the potential of these
enterprises in helping to “personalize” this history, while exposing others to “the feeling of disorientation that such findings can bring, and the
burden of history that it might entail” (Kramer
441–42). I am keenly aware of the degree of privilege involved here, knowing that I do possess the
ability to trace these people through the historical
trails they left behind. But I also see opportunities
to connect with students (and other audiences) in
new ways that help disrupt and defy simplistic
notions of how race and ethnicity affect the
American experience.
Similarly, black genealogy in the post-Roots era
highlights important advances toward more complex understandings of African-American family
and identity, as well as the difficulties in discussing these subjects. At its best, black genealogy
represents an important legacy to leave behind for
future generations, one that honestly portrays the
struggles of everyday people to live their lives,
create families, and negotiate historical realities in
ways great and small. For Tony Burroughs, this
meant that an “African-American country boy”
like Alex Haley could engage in the same process
of remembering kin that he saw in the British
Museum in 1989, amidst Egyptian hieroglyphics
that gave the lineages of royal families more than
twelve hundred years before the birth of Christ
(Burroughs 35–37). But to fully appreciate it and
to accurately reflect those experiences, Burroughs
warns, one always needs to be cognizant of the
context in which ancestors lived their lives. He
cautions contemporary audiences that without
knowledge of “slavery, slave customs, naming
patterns, and slave laws, as well as knowing how
Who Do You Think You Are? Thomas Edge
to trace white slave owners,” such research will be
much more difficult to accurately undertake (33).
Likewise, he counsels against assuming slavery as
a default position for African Americans prior to
the Civil War, saying, “Unfortunately, many
genealogists assume their ancestors were slaves
and run into a brick wall because their ancestors
were actually free prior to the Emancipation
Proclamation” (41). In contrast, the works of
scholars like Paul Heinegg shed light on free black
and multiracial families dating back to the 1600s,
including landowners, slaveholders, interracial
marriages, and those whose social status brought
them legal classification as white (1–10).
Genealogy and Memory
Regardless of the racial definitions involved,
African Americans’ attempts to define themselves,
their struggles, and their identities through family
are nothing new. Some may think of this as a postCivil Rights Movement phenomenon, but to do
so ignores a much longer historical project. It does
not take into account the actions of freedmen and
freedwomen trying to reunite families or track
down loved ones before and after Emancipation
(Williams ch. 4 and 5). Nor does it adequately
address how former slaves made sense of their earlier experiences after slavery ended, what they
chose to pass along to their children, or what they
did to remember loved ones lost to the “peculiar
institution” (Butler). Throughout the twentieth
and twenty-first centuries, starting well before the
publication of Roots, black family reunions also
represented opportunities to maintain family connections, to preserve and pass down memories
within families, and to sustain relationships across
time and space (Frazier). Here, memory theory
provides some of the important insights into
genealogy generally speaking, but especially into
African-American genealogy and resulting concepts of self-identity. The study of “memory
work” examines what individuals choose to
remember or forget, how they remember events,
and what they do to commemorate them. It can be
343
intimately connected with how people see those
events, large and small, and the impact those
events have on self-identity today.
In several crucial ways, genealogy represents
the most widespread and ongoing act of popular
memory work. At their core, genealogy and family history are attempts to remember family
through the act of recovery. Even if they have no
personal memory of an individual ancestor,
researchers seek to create a family memory or
family history which incorporates that person
into the collective ancestral experience—an experience in which the researchers themselves are also
participants and in which they want to be remembered as well. This, in turn, has important implications for how researchers see themselves as part of
that emerging story, and how that story fits into
larger social and historical forces. Annette Kuhn
points out, for instance, the important connections between that which one considers their
“personal” or “individual” memories and the “extended network of meanings that bring together
the personal with the familial, the cultural, the
economic, the social, the historical” (5). Within
genealogy, all of these factors affect the manner in
which people experienced the world around them,
how they perceived themselves and how they
were perceived in their own times, and the legacies they left behind. In raising those questions,
people also create opportunities “to explore connections between ‘public’ historical events, structures of feeling, family dramas, relations of class,
national identity and gender, and ‘personal’ memory” (5).
The efforts made to preserve that past and
remember it are vital to any understanding of how
genealogy reflects self-image. Si^an E. Lindlay’s
work on memory and the creation of archives
emphasizes that the choice to include or exclude
what “personal memories” will be translated into
“family history” is an important way in which
family historians try to exert some control over
memory. These memories, then, “are not retrieved
but are formed; narratives are actively reconstructed (and coconstructed with others); a life
story is interpreted and retrospectively reinterpreted; and narrative truth. . . and belief, rather
344
The Journal of American Culture Volume 40, Number 4 December 2017
than objective truth, is bound up with identity”
(15). Archives of memory are developed not only
in consideration of how the past is remembered,
but of what will be necessary and useful to
remember in the future, “shaped by the perceived
wishes and needs of their intended audience” (26).
Such acts of choosing narratives and creating
self-selected archives are also linked to attempts
to assess how our relative stance in society has
changed, compared to that of our ancestors.
Wendy Bottero’s work on genealogy and social
inequality points to genealogy’s potential “to
examine the processes of social comparison by
which hierarchical social position is determined;
and to explore how social change itself affects
people’s sense of relative position and inequality”
(56). While Bottero is primarily concerned with
issues of class inequality uncovered by English
genealogists, her analysis of its impact on the way
people view themselves and their own position in
the world is quite instructive to an examination of
oppressed groups throughout the West, regardless
of the basis for that oppression. According to Bottero, “‘Inequality’ raises questions about the relative worth of individuals, which can make it hard
to speak about—and hard to research. Although
people may readily recognize inequalities of social
position, acknowledging such inequalities is more
difficult, with such acknowledgment often seen as
a problematic moral evaluation, with unequal
social position equated with unequal personal
worth” (Bottero 58).
For African Americans seeking to research
their family trees, these inequalities and their historical legacies are not only crucial to providing
context for the lived experiences of their ancestors, but also a severe hindrance to the act of reclamation itself. Compared to those family
historians interviewed by Bottero, African Americans engaged in family history projects are acutely
aware of their ancestors’ relative positions in
those societies. But they are also more likely to be
hampered by the inequalities of those eras in even
conducting this research, as the lack of some
forms of documentation in both slavery and freedom impedes their work today (Burroughs,
29–31). Some of this is remedied through
Marianne Hirsch’s idea of “postmemory,” or the
transfer of stories of historical trauma to younger
generations (Kramer 430). Hirsch sees this as a
“process of identification, imagination, and projection,” where the literal truth or “authenticity”
of the family story/memory is secondary to the
“attempt to reconstruct missing archives and
absent records” (Kramer 431). Within the African-American experience, Arlene Keizer uses
postmemory to raise important questions of
whether certain historical phenomena like slavery
can “ever be put to rest,” and to examine how
black artists create visual languages for talking
about these collective past traumas (1649–51).
Drawing on Keizer’s work with black visual
artists and writers, one can begin to apply these
questions of postmemory and slavery to the visual
culture created by family history television.
Who Do You Think You Are?
The recent explosion of online genealogy and
its resurgence in popular culture provides a valuable opportunity to revisit how popular culture
examines these identity narratives today. Perhaps
the most prominent recent example of family history in popular culture is the television series Who
Do You Think You Are? Originally developed in
2004 for BBC2, it established a strong following
in Great Britain through its format of focusing on
the families of celebrities. Amy Holdsworth’s
analysis of the British series, particularly the connections between individual self-identity and larger issues of British nationalism and history,
offers some vital insights as to how the show functioned when it crossed the Atlantic in 2010 (66–
67). Whether linking celebrities to great and terrible events in American history or focusing on
America’s (white) ethnic diversity, the American
incarnation of the series certainly attempts to
undertake the same mission. For Holdsworth,
these guideposts in family and national identity
are inextricably linked, and shows like Who Do
You Think You Are? accentuate the relationship
between the two. As she notes, “The history of
Who Do You Think You Are? Thomas Edge
the identity formation of both the self and the
nation is fundamental to the project of the family
history documentary” (Holdsworth 78).
Within that mission, however, there are some
noticeable omissions. Through the first five seasons in the United States, for instance, there were
no features on Asian Americans, Hispanics, Native
Americans, or Arab Americans. By the time the
series made the jump from NBC to TLC in 2012,
twenty-seven episodes had been produced, of
which seven focused on people of color: Emmitt
Smith, Spike Lee, Vanessa L. Williams, Lionel
Ritchie, Blair Underwood, Jerome Bettis, and
Rashida Jones.1 Seasons four (“‘Who Do You
Think You Are’ on TLC”) and five (Nededog n.p.)
on TLC did not feature any people of color; it was
not until season six that Asian Americans and Latinos were depicted (Banks n.p.). The show’s efforts
to deal with African-American family history,
then, represent its primary effort to diversify the
meaning of American identity beyond whiteness,
and thus deserve additional attention here.
The decision to focus upon Who Do You Think
You Are? as opposed to a PBS series like Finding
Your Roots is primarily motivated by questions of
audience and impact. While several public television shows use similar techniques in talking about
family history, Who Do You Think You Are? represents the most visible effort by American television networks to examine this phenomenon.
Richard Schaefer’s work on what he calls “public
television constituencies” highlights the different
expectations that public television viewers have of
the programs they watch and their own role as
active viewers (51). For Schaefer’s subjects, there
was a strong belief among public television viewers in the educational substance of their programs,
and a tendency to dismiss network television programs as “an entertainment-oriented, segmented
flow of narrative fictional programs” (61). Such
views highlight the need to pay additional academic attention to programs produced for commercial networks that seek to cover the same
terrain. They raise crucial points about how these
programs translate as popular entertainment, and
the subsequent impact this has on a mass audience
with different viewer expectations.
345
In analyzing genealogy television shows, especially those created for network television, it is
impossible to separate the presentation of family
history research from the entertainment angle.
Ronald Bishop’s ethnographic research on genealogy enthusiasts emphasizes that contrary to popular belief, most amateur genealogists are perfectly
content to find average people with no connections to famous figures or events (Bishop 402–03).
While genealogy shows can create a sense of
drama out of everyday experiences, they privilege
episodes that already include this dramatic tension
or a strong historical angle. Indeed, when the
American version of the show was in development, the producers of the British series warned
them that “30 percent of the time . . . these stories
are a dead end because there are no records or it’s
just 500 years of sheep herders so there’s no story
to present” (Hay).
As represented on the screen, directorial decisions and editing try to give the audience the same
feeling of spontaneity and excitement that amateur genealogists describe in their own research as
they uncover new people and details (Bishop 400).
Achieving that emotional payoff from the audience, however, requires a certain suspension of
disbelief on their part. After all, there would be
no episode to watch without a “hook” to keep
their attention. At times, there are subtle hints
within the show of how much the researchers
already know before a given scene is filmed.
When one expert sits down with Spike Lee to do
an online search for US Census records, for example, the audience can see that the researcher has
already viewed the record: in the list of results on
Ancestry.com, the link has a different color from
the rest of the results, indicating that it has been
opened recently. As the scene plays out on television, however, the expert gives the appearance of
conducting this research with Lee for the first
time, while subtly guiding him toward a predetermined result. Because of the use of entertainment
figures, some of the personalities featured on the
show play with this dynamic between what is
staged and what is spontaneous. When presented
with the possibility that her great-great-grandfather was sired by one of two white men, for
346
The Journal of American Culture Volume 40, Number 4 December 2017
example, Aisha Tyler openly states that she hopes
the father was former US Presidential candidate
General W.S. Hancock. Gazing directly into the
camera with a deadpan look, she says that his
paternity would “make for better television.”
Black Agency and Identity in
the Family History
Documentary
Episodes with a strong focus on African-American genealogy develop several key themes: the
relationship between ancestors and structures of
racism, the symbolic and practical importance of
land, views of Africa, and reconciliation of these
complex racial histories with the show’s problematic views of race and its commercial interests. To
an extent, each theme highlights the tension that
exists between the participants’ personal feelings
about their family histories and the genealogy
show as public entertainment. Looking at the
genre of genealogy television in general, one can
and should ask how much of the reaction seen on
screen is genuine, and what impact the audience’s
gaze has on the spectacle as it unfolds (Holdsworth 69–70; Kramer 437–40). There is no way of
knowing the extent to which participants already
understand some of the history being explained to
them, whether their emotional responses include a
degree of performance for the audience, or what
editing decisions have been made to highlight
drama or downplay certain topics. There are some
important indications, however, of how marketing and perception figure into the final product.
Holdsworth’s comparison of the British and
American versions of the same episode (on actress
Sarah Jessica Parker), for example, highlights the
importance of editing and audience in the creative
decisions made behind the scenes (90–93). Meanwhile, the controversy over Ben Affleck’s episode
of PBS’s Finding Your Roots, and his request to
minimize or eliminate the role of slaveholding in
his family’s past, hints at a much more active role
by the presumed subjects of these studies than
previously thought (CBS/AP).
In contrast to the Affleck controversy, family
history television focused on the African-American experience often centers slavery and racism,
wherever possible. Beginning with the realities of
slavery, Who Do You Think You Are? offers a
potentially rich opportunity to humanize the
intergenerational process of creating and sustaining American racism. Yet this does not need to be
presented in a ways that excludes a nuanced view
of the history, one that centers themes of resistance and that complicates the viewer’s understanding of the larger historical processes at work.
Blair Underwood was shocked, for example, to
not only find that he had free black ancestors
going back to the era of the Revolutionary War,
but that in the decades prior to the Civil War,
some of them were listed as slaveholders. This
offered an opportunity to introduce Underwood
(and, by extension, the viewing audience) to the
restrictions on slave masters who wanted to manumit their slaves, and to examine the practice of
buying older relatives to care for them. In this
case, Virginia law insisted that manumitted slaves
had one year to leave the state permanently. Thus,
rather than separate families, children could
“buy” their parents with the intention of treating
them as free people. Those who could trace their
freedom prior to the passage of the law had to register with local authorities and provide evidence
of their free status. This, then, presents an intimate
view of how tenuous legal freedom could be for
African Americans prior to Emancipation, but
also how it existed side-by-side with slavery.
At the same time, Underwood’s assumption of
slave ancestry, and thus his surprise at finding free
relatives well before the Civil War, attests to the
power of enslavement as the default assumption
of black identity in early America. To be sure, the
vast majority of African Americans through 1865
were enslaved. But although experts have pointed
to the problems this can create in research, even
Who Do You Think You Are? was not immune to
these pressures. When Spike Lee researched the
family of his maternal grandmother, Zimmie Jackson, he mentioned the slave status of her paternal
grandmother, Lucinda Jackson. Further research
ultimately revealed that her paternal grandfather
Who Do You Think You Are? Thomas Edge
was Mars Jackson, prompting the unchallenged
comment, “If Lucinda was born a slave, then, definitely, Mars was born a slave.” Alfre Woodard,
in researching her great-grandfather Alex Woodard, determined from the 1880 United States
Census that he was born in Georgia around 1841.
Her response was telling: “1841, in Georgia?
Mother of God, he was enslaved.” Aisha Tyler
had the same reaction upon seeing her ancestor,
Hugh Hancock, listed as a five-year-old boy in
the 1860 Census. Noting that he was born in Texas, she responded, “Wow, he’s probably born into
slavery,” with the historian giving an indication of
agreement. There was absolutely no basis for any
of these assertions yet, based on the evidence presented thus far, but the experts assisting them on
their family history journeys did nothing to dispel
these notions. This could mean that they know
where the narrative is heading based upon their
own research, that they simply are not interested
in correcting those misperceptions, or that their
corrections were edited from the episode.
In contrast to these assumptions, one of the
strengths of Who Do You Think You Are? and of
genealogy television in general is its potential to
present to a large (predominantly white) audience
the variety of reactions that African Americans
had to their own oppression. Singer/actress
Vanessa Williams, for example, traced the story of
one ancestor, David Carll, who served in the Civil
War. His service through the summer of 1865
included informing slaves of the Emancipation
Proclamation’s promise of freedom. Another
ancestor of Williams, W. A. Fields, served as one
of the earliest black members of the Tennessee
state legislature, prior to the widespread disenfranchisement of African Americans across the
region in the 1890s. Reminiscent of Du Bois’s
Black Reconstruction, the audience is reminded of
black agency in bringing about the end of chattel
slavery in the United States. Other participants in
the show were excited by the sheer ability to cast
a ballot, much less hold office. Alfre Woodard
was overjoyed by an 1867 tax record from Louisiana showing that her ancestor, a former slave, had
paid his one dollar poll tax for the year and was at
least registered to vote.
347
Fraternal and social organizations take center
stage in several episodes, as reminders of black
institution building and the quest for self-determination. Lionel Ritchie’s ancestors, for example,
included J.L. Brown, who served as Supreme
Grand Archon of the Knights of the Wise Men.
As Skocpol, Liazos, and Ganz have indicated,
“black fraternal orders were mainstays of selforganization for blacks during the difficult times
of segregation, disenfranchisement, and threatening violence that prevailed from the 1880s to the
mid-twentieth century.” The Knights of the Wise
Men, among many other groups, offered death
benefits to member families, a service that provided a modicum of “economic security in an era
when black insurance companies were not yet
strong enough and white insurance companies
refused to sell policies to blacks” (13). Such
groups proved to be an important source of racial
pride and leadership, not to mention an assertion
of self-sufficiency in a white supremacist society
that often rejected the possibility of black independence.
It would be a mistake to assume, however, that
these acts of resistance and agency only took place
after Emancipation. When Alfre Woodard examined the estate appraisement of her enslaved
ancestor’s owner, Dr. Daina Ramey Berry, the
historian guiding her through the process, indicated that there was nothing in the record about
his parents. Yet she used the opportunity to highlight the other adult women listed in the estate,
indicating that they probably had a role in raising
him, even if they were not blood relations. Woodard connected the historian’s discussion of
“fictive kin” to her own “play cousins” growing
up, indicating that some of the survival techniques
used during slavery had endured well past the
demise of that institution. At the end of the scene,
Woodard even hugged Dr. Berry, telling her,
“You’re now my play sister,” to which Dr. Berry
responded, “We’re kin now, right?” Viewing
audiences that are accustomed to attacks on black
family structures were instead introduced to the
creative manner in which separated biological
families gave way to informal family structures
that helped African Americans survive trying
348
The Journal of American Culture Volume 40, Number 4 December 2017
times. Such family structures also represented an
adaptation of West African family traditions, thus
making them a cultural survival of the Middle
Passage and a means of coping with the evils of
slavery (Chatters et al. 297–98). Taken together,
in slavery and freedom, these examples help an
audience that is likely to be unfamiliar with the
specifics of African-American history understand
the extent to which blacks tried to exert control
over their own racial environment.
Race and Place/Space
Such competing notions of oppression and
freedom, struggle and resistance, were evident in
the discussions of land and the focus on sites that
represented these larger issues. For many of the
show’s participants across racial lines, occupying
the physical spaces of their ancestors was an emotional experience. With African-American subjects, however, it often amplifies the connections
between their ancestors and the historical events
at the center of the episode, including both
oppressive structures and resistance to those
structures. At times, symbolic links are created
through the use of alternative physical spaces
when there is no verifiable way to identify a place
of interest. Emmitt Smith’s trip to Mecklenburg
County, Virginia, included a visit to a local tavern
that once served as a hub of the internal slave
trade. Smith and a local historian occupied the
space where slaves were auctioned and looked
upon the lawn where potential buyers once stood.
There was no way of knowing whether his own
ancestor, who had been sold in that county, ever
shared that space. For Smith and the audience,
however, the space served its purpose as an emotional placeholder signifying the larger history of
the internal slave trade.
Smith’s experiences also show land and physical spaces as indicators of status, or the lack
thereof. Visiting the Alabama cemetery which
served as the final resting place of the Puryear
family, the owners of his ancestors, Smith asked
whether the slaves were buried there. The expert
emphasized, “This is the white cemetery. Look
beyond the woods, and the blacks would be buried there. Maybe Prince is over there.” Smith is
framed in the background of the following scene,
standing near a rusted chain-link fence, looking
into the wooded area where his ancestors might
be buried. In the foreground of the shot, the burial
site of Mary Puryear is clearly visible, a stark contrast to the lack of acknowledgement of Smith’s
ancestor, Prince Puryear. Smith gave voice to this
discrepancy, not only for what it said about the
era in which both of them lived and died, but for
what it means to their descendants today: “It
seems like my great-great-great granddaddy is
buried somewhere in these woods. Through time,
this gravesite has rotted over. And I do see Ms.
Puryear’s gravesite, and so her family can still
come visit her. It is sad that I cannot go visit my
great-great-great grandfather. . ..”
For others, however, land gives the participants
an opportunity to honor their ancestors or a sense
of accomplishment in their resistance to racism.
Spike Lee was ecstatic to learn that his great-great
grandfather, a former slave named Mars Woodall,
became a landowner in the years following the
Civil War. Visiting the now-deserted spot where
Woodall once lived, Lee paid homage to his
ancestor by donning the hat and necklace that he
wore playing a character named Mars from his
first film, She’s Gotta Have It. (Lee’s grandmother suggested the name “Mars” based on her
recollection of a “crazy uncle” from her youth;
unbeknownst to Lee, this was actually her grandfather.) Before leaving, Lee started digging some
of that dirt to take with him and said, “Dig up
some of this land, I’m gonna show it to my children, say, ‘This is where you came from! Georgia
red clay.’” Alfre Woodard, likewise, found out
that her ancestor Alex Woodard owned eighty
acres of land in Jackson Parish, Louisiana, in the
early 1880s. Visiting the area he used to own,
Woodard touched the earth and poured libations
in honor of her ancestors’ struggle for self-determination. Earlier in the same episode, arriving in
Georgia to meet with an expert, she talked about
her surroundings as “the land we bled into, that
we’ve sweated into.” Walking on the land where
Who Do You Think You Are? Thomas Edge
Alex (alternately called Alec and Elic) was
enslaved in the late 1850s, Woodward removed
her sandals, walked barefoot amid the trees,
poured water on the ground, and collected pine
cones as symbols of the land her forefather once
worked while seeking her “connection” with him.
The efforts to attain and retain land, however,
became another battleground between blacks and
whites, especially in the postbellum South. Blair
Underwood’s ancestor, Sauney Early, appeared to
undergo a precipitous decline between 1880,
when he was listed in the US Census as a landowner, and 1900, when he was institutionalized in
a state hospital for the mentally ill. Accounts from
white newspapers played up the image of Early as
a “pestiferous darky” and self-proclaimed “Second Jesus” who wore “cabalistic signs” on his
clothing. What emerges is neither a simple story
of decline nor a cautionary tale of the “failures” of
Emancipation, but one that highlighted grassroots
struggles for power in the postbellum South. To
its credit, the episode squarely places Sauney
Early in religious traditions of the African Diaspora, describing him as a “conjurer” and briefly
explaining the links to West African spiritual life.
Early is recentered as a person of influence within
the black community, as someone around whom
they rallied in his times of need, challenging our
assumption of mental illness and isolation from
the first record shown from 1900. By the end of
Early’s saga, Underwood literally stands in his
forefather’s footsteps, treading the ground that
Early once owned in the years following his
emancipation. Now, the violent incidents between
Early and his white neighbors are seen through
the attempts to own and control land, the desire
to be economically self-sufficient, and the racial
politics underlying these attempts at self-determination. Physical attacks on Sauney Early, culminating in his institutionalization, had nothing to
do with mental illness and everything to do with
racial control. Once again, the audience is
reminded of different racial views on the same
incident, and particularly of the divergent views
that emerge of strong-willed black resistance to
oppression (Farrell 226). Ultimately, Underwood
comes to a much better understanding of Early’s
349
life as “someone who was connected to the spirit
world, and was a leader amongst people, and was
well-known in the community, who was a colorful character. . ..”
Aisha Tyler’s encounters with physical spaces
took her to the site of her great-great-grandfather’s saloon in Austin, Texas, the “Black Elephant.” Earlier in the episode, Tyler was
perplexed by Hugh Hancock’s decision to leave
Ohio, where he had been educated at Oberlin, for
the racial climate of Texas. Seeing the building
that once housed his business, however, she recognized that the space represented his efforts “to
take [his] personal freedoms,” rather than to wait
for them to be bestowed upon him. The bar’s
name hinted at the idea that it was a gathering
place for African Americans who supported the
Republican Party, and Tyler came to embrace the
notion that this might have been a central location
for the exchange of political ideas and plotting of
strategies. Thematically, the director used this to
direct Tyler toward his work with the Republican
Party, culminating in her visit to 1717 West Street.
A historical marker in front of the home indicated
that this house used to be on Seventh Street, and
that it was built for Hancock in 1886. As Tyler
spoke of how she felt that she embodied much of
what Hancock hoped to accomplish, the camera
shows her first admiring the house, then touching
the pillars on the front porch before walking away
from the camera. Both locations elicited emotional reactions from her and offered physical
proof of his legacy in Austin’s history.
Connecting with African Roots
The fascination with place extended far beyond
American soil. It is not surprising that several of
the episodes include a strong focus on the African-American connection to Africa through the
slave trade, and that the celebrities featured
expressed a strong desire to explore those African
roots. At times, however, the actual treatment of
Africa and African identities is problematic. In
Emmitt Smith’s case, DNA testing suggested that
350
The Journal of American Culture Volume 40, Number 4 December 2017
his ancestors probably came from what is now
Benin. Traveling to Ouidah, Benin, Smith learned
more about the process of the international slave
trade, and was introduced to a group of local students who were rescued from modern-day human
trafficking. The exchange that followed reinforced
an “othering” of African identity, as Smith talked
about the parallels between his own family’s history with the slave trade and the modern equivalents in Africa. His comments, and the episode
itself, paint human trafficking as a problem in
West Africa, but in doing so highlight Smith’s
ignorance of trafficking in his own back yard.
While a recent news feature on sex trafficking in
Texas highlighted Dallas (Smith’s home) and the
Interstate 35 corridor as “a crucial part of the
human trafficking story” (Diaz n.p.), Smith seems
shocked and appalled that there is still some form
of human slavery occurring in Africa in the
twenty-first century. The Dallas-based think tank
Children At Risk identified Dallas as a major
potential source of sex trafficking, in part because
of the large numbers of runaways living in the
city. But they also linked this to a much larger
domestic and international problem, estimating
that as many as 200,000 American children are at
risk of sex trafficking every year, and that approximately 17,500 international children are brought
to the United States through sex trafficking annually (Sanborn et al. 7–10). Neither Smith nor the
producers considered, in addition to the forced
labor mentioned in the episode, that some of those
rescued children may have been destined for modern-day slavery in developed nations.
Blair Underwood’s “homegoing” to Cameroon
was a bit more nuanced in its treatment of modern
African identity. For Smith, most of his visit
entailed his connection to the slave trade generally
speaking; thus, most of the scenes were filmed
along the coast and on the beach, representing his
ancestors’ journey centuries earlier. Underwood’s
DNA test, however, linked him to a distant cousin
in Cameroon. His arrival at the cousin’s home in
Babungo is welcomed by other members of the village, who demonstrate the syncretism of modern
African identities. Images of villagers entertaining
the Underwoods with traditional dances and
costumes are juxtaposed with these same villagers
wearing modern clothing and taking pictures of
their arrival on digital cameras. The scene unfolding here captures the audience through the prospect of reunion. Amy Holdsworth has noted that
in the British incarnation of Who Do You Think
You Are?, photographs played a key role in bringing the “dead” back into the story (Holdsworth
72) Here, the Underwoods bring a photograph of
their American family as a gift for their African
cousins, saying, “We wanted to give you a picture
of our family in America, which is your family, so
you know what they look like.” Underwood
leaves open the possibility of bringing his family to
Cameroon to visit their newly discovered kin, or
to bring his African cousin to America for a
reunion. In the end, the trip to Cameroon has
accomplished what Fenella Cannell calls “an ethical act of kinship recognition” (471). The intervening historical separation and difficulties have been
overcome, in a sense, through the reestablishment
or recognition of past ties. For Underwood, this is
also accompanied by an acknowledgement of the
racial meaning behind this journey when he says,
“But for me, we’re African. Not because we’re
born in Africa, but because Africa was born in us.
Who I thought I was, when we started this odyssey, is different than who I know I am today. It’s
been incredible.”
As Underwood and others show, however,
understanding their personal relationship with
these large historical trends, including slavery and
the slave trade, was important. As Woodard put
it, “You know, my people, walked—when I say
‘my people,’ I mean all Africans, all enslaved people—we walked out of slavery with nothing. So, I
want to trace the steps of how they got out, if the
footprints are still there.” Historians may challenge this notion that slaves “walked out. . . with
nothing,” pointing to African survivals, syncretic
cultures, and other social structures they created
for themselves in spite of the conditions of slavery. But that desire to “trace the steps” was
echoed, one way or another, by every participant,
including the desire to share the results with family members to help them better understand this
journey.
Who Do You Think You Are? Thomas Edge
Conflicts and Conclusions
In documenting these stories, the directors and
producers sometimes require closer scrutiny to
the mixed racial messages they send to their audiences. To their credit, most of the episodes of
Who Do You Think You Are? dealing with African-American subjects have at least one black
expert assisting the participant (the Blair Underwood episode was a notable exception to this).
While seemingly a minor decision, it at least
avoids the uncomfortable possibility of associating whiteness with authority, including the exclusive power to explain African-American history
to African Americans. Elsewhere in the productions, however, there are signs that more attention
must be paid to the images and ideas on the
screen, and how they sometimes clash with the
intentions of the moment.
In at least two episodes, for example, as participants are reflecting on issues of slavery and freedom, the camera focuses on symbols of the
Confederacy. Blair Underwood had just learned
that his ancestor purchased his own parents to
care for them in old age, and reflected on the
important example he set: “To me, this is beautiful
and profound and eye-opening, because it’s part
of my history. . .. I look at how my four-times
great grandfather, Samuel Scott, the fact that he
was looking out for these people, taking care of
them, it’s empowering to know that. What else
has been illuminating is that there’s such deep
roots in the state of Virginia that I had no idea
about.” As the audience hears Underwood reflecting on “why I feel like such a Virginian,” the camera pans across the face and upper torso of a
statue, a soldier holding a bayonet, standing out
against a clear blue sky in the background. The
director and photographer probably thought that
the old-fashioned image of a patriotic soldier
made a nice counterpoint to Underwood’s discourse on his personal connection to Virginia,
dating back to the Revolutionary War period.
What the audience does not see is the writing on
the base of the statue: it is the Confederate War
Monument in Lynchburg, dedicated on its base to
351
“Our Confederate Soldiers.” The juxtaposition of
Underwood celebrating these free black Virginian
roots with the image of proslavery Confederate
military resistance is fascinating and troubling in
all its potential symbolism. In that moment, slavery has been temporarily erased from the narrative on both sides. All of Underwood’s named
relatives in the documentary record of the Scott
family were free or cared for by free relatives. The
Confederate soldier, meanwhile, has been separated from the politics or origins of the Civil War
and instead becomes the embodiment of Underwood’s link to Virginia soil.
Similarly, when Alfre Woodward learned that
her great-grandfather Alec (or Elic) was willed to a
new master in 1856, she walked from the Houston
County Courthouse in Perry, Georgia, expressing
her desire to know more about his fate. Based on
her discussion with Dr. Berry, she understood that
this moment represented his separation from the
“fictive kin” who probably raised him, and that as
a fifteen-year-old boy, he was entering the “peak”
years of his value and productivity. Walking
downtown past an American flag, she wanted “to
know who he is. He had enough of his humanity
compromised. I just want him to be who he is.” As
she finished that thought, the camera showed the
Confederate monument outside the Houston
County Courthouse at sunset. The side panel
reads, “In Honor of the Men of Houston County,
Who Served in the Army of the Confederate States
of America. ‘Those who fought and lived, and
those who fought and died.’” Below in large letters
is the word “COMRADES,” and a placard reading
“To Our Confederate Dead.” As with the Virginia
monument, the use of “our” here is instructive, as
it was clearly intended to represent white Southerners alone. Here, more than in the Underwood
episode, the audience is also confronted with the
contrast between this permanent memorial to the
“Lost Cause” and the uncertainty of what happens
to Alec. Between the last two shots of the statue,
Woodard says, “So hopefully, Alec will speak to us
somehow.” Although Underwood had the luxury
of knowing his ancestors’ fates, Woodward was
still hoping for a positive resolution to Alec’s
story.
352
The Journal of American Culture Volume 40, Number 4 December 2017
Elsewhere, the show’s unquestioned embrace
of DNA testing raises critical points about its definition of race. As previously discussed, two of
the episodes include trips to Africa, with destinations determined by the results of DNA tests used
to trace ethnic ancestry; a third episode, featuring
Spike Lee, referred to earlier genetic tests in passing and accepted without hesitations Lee’s insistence that his ancestors came from Cameroon and
Sierra Leone. With Blair Underwood, there was at
least the explanation that a distant cousin, whose
DNA had already been sampled and was part of
their data set, had been located in Camaroon.
With Emmitt Smith, however, the travel to Benin
was entirely based on his genetic profile. Neither
episode provided any real explanation of how the
results are determined, the limitations of these
tests, or the ways that human history (especially
human migrations) might affect the analysis of
which alleles are more likely to be found in particular regions of the world. Perhaps more troubling
with Underwood was his absolute belief in genetics as destiny. Informed that his European ancestry likely derived from France, he waxed poetic
about his long-standing affinity for the French
language and French culture. At no point did he
reflect on France’s legacy of colonialism in
Cameroon, nor the interesting confluence that
these results thus represented.
Here, in stark contrast to the line of experts
contextualizing the history of race relations in the
United States, the only experts presented on
screen are there to provide statistical breakdowns
of lineage. Molecular biologist Abram Gabriel has
warned of the dangers of this approach, as “it is
far from obvious what DNA data reveal about
race.” Such an attitude, he fears, could lead to a
resurgence in the same thinking that contributed
to the belief in eugenics a century ago (Gabriel
44). In her examination of family history television, Christine Scodari warns that the lack of context provided leaves the viewer with the feeling
that the science is flawless, its findings concrete,
while overlooking not only the racial implications
but the economic ones as well. She argues, “Not
only do genealogy series plug DNA firms, but
people in these shows clearly regard autosomal
and some haplogroup classifications as analogous
to racial ones—the implication being that all are
biological certainties” (Scodari 214). Michael S.
Sweeney’s work on genealogical discourse also
reminds us that any attempt to neatly categorize
African DNA is complicated by the continent’s
diversity of people. Assessing the work of Henry
Louis Gates, Jr. on the PBS shows African-American Lives and Finding Our Roots, Sweeney writes,
“The genetic genealogy component of Gates’
method comes with its own complications and
ambiguities. Africa, as the geographic origin of all
humanity, contains the largest variation of genetic
material in the world” (Sweeney 225).
To be fair, there are other moments that complicate the program’s reliance on scientific views
of race. These are best expressed in the episodes
where there is strong evidence of enslaved relatives fathered by white slaveholders. For Aisha
Tyler, this was not only a question of determining
which famous Hancock was the father of her
ancestor, Hugh. After that determination was
made, it meant understanding how her white
ancestor could pay for Hugh’s education and help
provide him with land, while simultaneously
arguing against African-American suffrage and
comparing black voters to “mules.” Emmitt Smith
dealt with a different comparison to livestock, as
historian Steven Deyle showed him evidence that
Virginians carefully traced the lineages of horses,
while ignoring that of enslaved Africans. “If people can trace horse lines back to Europe,” Smith
asked, “why can’t I trace mine back to Africa?
Why?” In that same conversation, upon learning
that his ancestor Mariah Puryear was likely fathered by her master, Smith asserts, “I’m glad my
heart is not like his.”
Perhaps the best example, though, comes from
the end of Spike Lee’s episode. Here, Lee learned
that his great-great-grandmother, Matilda Griswold, may have been fathered by her first master,
Samuel Griswold. The episode culminates with a
face-to-face meeting between Lee and a white
descendant of the same Griswold family. Entering
her home, Lee sits on one side of the couch opposite from Guinevere Grier, informing her that
they may be third cousins, twice removed.
Who Do You Think You Are? Thomas Edge
Guinevere responds with an impassioned speech
attacking slavery, one that unwittingly tries to
absolve past generations of responsibility for it:
“Slavery is awful. The situation of the people who
lived for generations after, you know, was really
horrible. But, I think, a lot more people were just
as horrified by both slavery and the treatment of
blacks in our country. Excuse me, I’m getting
sniffly. How do you feel about it? How do you
feel about Samuel?” Quite suddenly, Guinevere
erases the very intentional efforts of many to
uphold chattel slavery and other racist structures,
and looks to Lee for some form of absolution for
their possibly shared ancestor. “I can’t love the
man,” Lee responds. “How can you own another
human being?”
Scenes such as these give great insight into the
efforts of whites and African Americans alike to
make sense of their own relationships to slavery
and historical racism. Herein rests the promise
and peril of genealogy in popular culture. While it
offers an outstanding opportunity to introduce a
nuanced view of race in American history to
wider audiences, it is nonetheless packaging a product for the audience’s consumption. The
attempts to literally sell family history to viewers,
via subscriptions to Ancestry.com and mail-order
DNA kits, contribute to the show’s Whig view of
history: that these successful African Americans
have overcome racism, that they are fulfilling the
wishes of their ancestors, and that all of their
questions about the past can be answered. This
emphasis upon the “happy ending” sometimes
takes precedence over deeper scholarly discussions about how race is defined and how it continues to determine the life chances and choices of
Americans today. Even with such concessions,
white audiences may resist engaging the history of
slavery and racism on the terms set by the director
and producer. Just as audiences can resent the
expectation of a specific emotional reaction to the
material presented (Kramer 439), so too might
they reject a retelling of American racial history
that thoroughly contradicts their own understanding of these issues. The challenge facing the
genre, then, is how to continue to present microhistories with the vast potential to reshape
353
popular perceptions of slavery, without reifying
older notions of race in the process, nor ignoring
the ways that American society has normalized so
many remnants and symbols of its own racist
legacies.
Note
1. Rashida Jones’s episode did not actually focus upon her African-American ancestry via her father, musician and producer Quincy
Jones. Rather, it explored her mother’s Latvian heritage. This article
does not address her episode for that reason. Likewise, it does not
discuss Jerome Bettis, as that episode is currently unavailable in the
United States.
Works Cited
Banks, Alicia. “‘Scandal’s’ Tony Goldwyn, America Ferrera Added
to TLC’s ‘Who Do You Think You Are?’ Lineup.” The Wrap, 4
Feb. 2015. Accessed 19 Dec. 2016.
Bishop, Ronald. “In the Grand Scheme of Things: An Exploration of
the Meaning of Genealogical Research.” Journal of Popular Culture, vol. 41, no. 3, 2008, pp. 393–412.
Bottero, Wendy. “Who Do You Think They Were? How Family
Historians Make Sense of Social Position and Inequality in the
Past.” The British Journal of Sociology, vol. 63, no. 1, 2012, pp.
54–74.
Burroughs, Tony. Black Roots: A Beginner’s Guide to Tracing the
African American Family Tree. Fireside Press, 2001.
Butler, Sana. Sugar of the Crop: My Journey to Find the Children of
Slaves. The Lyons Press, 2009.
Cannell, Fenella. “English Ancestors: The Moral Possibilities of
Popular Genealogy.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, vol. 17, no. 3, 2011, pp. 462–80.
CBS/AP, “Ben Affleck’s Episode of ‘Finding Your Roots’ Violated
Public TV Standards.” CBS News, 24 June 2015. Accessed 18
Mar. 2016.
Chatters, Linda M., Robert Joseph Taylor, and Rukmalie Jayakody.
“Fictive Kinship Relations in Black Extended Families.” Journal
of Comparative Family Studies, vol. 25, no. 3, 1994, pp. 297–312.
Coates, Ta-Nehisi Paul. “Is Obama Black Enough?” Time, 1 Feb.
2007. Accessed 26 Dec. 2016.
Diaz, Joy. “What We Learned On A Tour Of Sex Trafficking
Sites In Dallas.” KERA News, 16 Oct. 2015. Accessed 19 Dec.
2016.
Dickerson, Debra J. The End of Blackness: Returning the Souls of
Black Folk to Their Rightful Owners. Pantheon Books, 2004.
Farrell, Jr., Walter C. “Bad Nigger: The National Impact of Jack
Johnson by Al-Tony Gilmore,” review of Bad Nigger: The
National Impact of Jack Johnson. The Journal of Negro History,
vol. 61, no. 2, 1976, pp. 225–27.
354
The Journal of American Culture Volume 40, Number 4 December 2017
Feltes, Sarah, dir. “Blair Underwood.” Who Do You Think You Are?
Shed Media, 24 Feb. 2012.
Frazier, Krystal Denise. “From the Reunions of Reconstruction to
the Reconstruction of Reunions: Extended and Adoptive Kin
Traditions Among Late-Nineteenth and Twentieth Century
African Americans.” Ph.D. Diss., Rutgers University, 2010.
Lindlay, Si^an E. “Before I Forget: From Personal History to Family
History.” Human-Computer Interaction, vol. 27, 2012, pp. 13–
36.
Nededog, Jethro. “‘Who Do You Think You Are?’ Season 5 to Feature Cynthia Nixon, Jesse Tyler Ferguson, Rachel McAdams
(Exclusive).” The Wrap, 4 June 2014. Accessed 6 June 2014.
Gabriel, Abram. “A Biologist’s Perspective on DNA and Race in the
Genomics Era.” Genetics and the Unsettled Past: The Collision of
DNA, Race, and History, edited by Keith Waloo, Alondra Nelson, and Catherine Lee. Rutgers UP, 2012, pp. 43–66.
Sanborn Robert, Mandi Sheridan Kimball , Olga Sinitsyn, and Jennifer Michel Solak, eds. “The State of Human Trafficking in Texas.” Report from Children At Risk, May 2013. Accessed 19 Dec.
2016.
Hay, Carla. “Lisa Kudrow Answers the Question ‘Who Do You
Think You Are?’” 4 Mar. 2010. Accessed 6 June 2014.
Schaefer, Richard J. “Public Television Constituencies: A Study in
Media Aesthetics and Intentions.” Journal of Film and Video, vol.
43, no. 1/2, Audiences, Spring and Summer, 1991, pp. 46–68.
Heinegg, Paul. Free African Americans of North Carolina and
Virginia. Clearfield Co., 1995.
Holdsworth, Amy. Television, Memory, and Nostalgia. Palgrave
MacMillan, 2011.
Hudson, Jules and Nick Barratt. “The Rise and Rise of Family
History.” History Today, vol. 57, no. 4, Apr. 2007, pp. 20–21.
Keizer, Arlene R. Black Subjects: Identity Formation in the Contemporary Narrative of Slavery. Cornell UP, 2004.
——. “Gone Astray in the Flesh: Kara Walker, Black Women Writers, and African American Postmemory.” PMLA, Special Topic:
Comparative Racialization, vol. 123, no. 5, Oct. 2008, pp. 1649–
72.
Kramer, Anne-Marie. “Mediatizing Memory: History, Affect and
Identity in Who Do You Think You Are?” European Journal of
Cultural Studies, vol. 14, no. 4, 2011, pp. 428–45.
Kuhn, Annette. Family Secrets: Acts of Memory and Imagination.
Verso, 2002.
Scodari, Christina. “Roots, Representation, and Resistance? Family
History Media & Culture through a Critical Lens.” Journal of
American Culture, vol. 36, no. 3, Sept. 2013, pp. 206–20.
Skocpol, Theda, Ariane Liazos, and Marshall Ganz. What a Might
Power We Can Be: African American Fraternal Groups and the
Struggle for Racial Equality. Princeton UP, 2006.
Sweeney, Michael S. “Ancestors, Avotaynu, Roots: An Inquiry Into
American Genealogy Discourse.” PhD. Diss., University of Kansas, 2010.
“‘Who Do You Think You Are?’ On TLC: Kelly Clarkson, Jim Parsons Search For Their Roots.” Huffington Post, 26 June 2013.
Accessed 15 May 2015.
Williams, Heather Andrea. Help Me to Find My People: The African
American Search for Family Lost in Slavery. The U of North Carolina P, 2012.
Reproduced with permission of copyright owner. Further reproduction
prohibited without permission.