Late-night visits to adult bookstores. Coming out shows on college campuses. Climbing the corporate ladders while never forgetting your roots. The love and support of sisters/lovers/friends.
La Toya Hankins seeks to capture the lives of the new Southern women in her novels, SBF Seeking… and K-Rho: The Sweet Taste of Sisterhood. Dedicated to capturing the experiences of women’ voices often left unheard in contemporary fiction, Hankins takes the reader to the cities and towns of her native North Carolina and showcases the experiences of living for one self instead of up to the expectations of others.
Kiara, Donna, Yvette, Yolanda, Danita, and Gloria are more than just characters. They are the sisters, sorors, daughters, and friends we all have in our lives.
Have you found what you are looking for, and do you have a sisterhood that supersedes sexuality? Come visit the word of Toya and find yourself among the pages.
I have grown accustomed to assumptions being made about me when I share that I am an only child. Some people think growing up “sans siblings” translates to being spoiled, indulged, and pampered. I will admit that I did grow up spoiled. However, I credit my treatment growing up to me having open heart surgery when I was five-years-old and being the oldest great-grandchild more than anything.
My great-aunt Gloria, or Nip as my family and friends called her, enabled my indulgence. She took me on trips throughout the South and encouraged my creativity throughout my childhood. Nip was one of my earliest supporters when I announced at the age of ten I plan to operate my own greeting card line. She was an independent woman well before Destiny’s Child, and her life inspired me to never settle for small-town dreams.
Nip worked as an educator and entrepreneur for nearly five decades. She taught cosmetology to students at James Sprunt Community College Monday through Friday, and then she would travel ninety miles from Kenansville, NC to our hometown of Southport, NC, on Friday evening to operate her beauty salon. The next day, she spent up to twelve hours doing press and curls, relaxers, and wash and sets for black women throughout Brunswick County. For more than half of my life, she only had one day off.
From the time I could ride my bicycle, I spent most of my Saturdays with her at the shop, basking in the power of a woman defining her destiny by helping other women realize their beauty. Nip reminded me of Diana Ross in so many ways–the physical appearance, the soft voice, and she was “The Boss” when it came to her life.
Nip passed away near the end of 2020–the second person to depart my family circle last year. Her passing allowed me to reflect on how she shaped my life by exposing me to people, places, and food, which continue to shape me. An example of this involves the fruit known as a symbol of prosperity, hope, and abundance–the pomegranate
Historians trace the fruit’s roots to an area located in what is known as modern-day Iran. Its path of cultivation stretched through the Middle East with stops in South Asia and the Mediterranean. The cultivation of pomegranates predates the birth of Jesus Christ, and the fruit merits mention in several major religions’ holy texts. I became interested in the fruit through my love of Greek mythology. The story of Persephone being forced to spend months in the underworld due to her consuming three pomegranate seeds fascinated me. Pomegranates were not everyday items in Southeastern North Carolina grocery stores in the 1970s. My fruit knowledge consisted of only pears, apples, berries, and bananas. Occasionally my great-great-uncle from Florida sent oranges and grapefruits, but that was as exotic as it got. One winter day, Nip somehow procured the fruit and presented it to me to try. I will never forget the awe I felt tasting the fruit’s sweetness and marveling at the multitude of seeds contained within. Her efforts allowed me to form a food memory connected to my love of reading. That profound experience inspired me to continue to seek culinary connection to the written word experience.
Pomegranates were not the only extraordinary food Nip exposed me to. When we traveled to Atlanta to visit one of her friends, she also encouraged me to try gyros after Seventeen magazine declared the meat dish served with tzatziki sauce in a pita as the dish all the teens were eating in Atlanta. Gyros is a Greek dish made from meat cooked on a vertical rotisserie served along with chopped onions, lettuce, and the yogurt-based sauce known as tzatziki. It’s origins date back to the 19th century but it became a popular dish in the United States during the 1970s. Meats commonly used for gyros include ground beef mixed with lamb but chicken is also popular. Once again, the words that fed my mind inspired me to feed my body.
Nip encouraged me to expand my culinary horizons and craft memories even when we dined on just hot dogs and fries. She allowed me to spend weeks with her in Kenansville during the summer. During the day, I traveled with her to work and interacted with her students. This experience exposed me to higher education when I was still in grade school and showed my aunt in a different light. We were only a few years away from a time when a black woman was good to be called by her first name, rather than ‘gal’ or worse, by those in positions of power. However, here, everyone called my aunt “Miss Hankins.” That display of respect was profound.
On the way back to Southport, we would stop at Paul’s Place in Rocky Point. The culinary landmark is known for its signature barbecue relish and regularly appears on lists of the best places to get a hot dog in North Carolina. The key to the hot dog’s popularity is the condiment created in response to beef rations during World War II. The owner encountering a pickle manufacturer came up with the idea of the sweet relish. Over hot dogs and fries, Nip listened to me and encouraged my ambitions of writing. Those moments still warm my heart.
Pomegranates, hot dogs, and gyros are just three of the food memories Nip inspired for me. Ironically, I can’t remember eating a meal cooked by my great-aunt even though she had a fantastic house and kitchen. Instead, thoughts of sitting with her on Saturday night in her shop occupy my mind. When the last customer left, Nip would enjoy her dinner, sometimes a sandwich from home or a burger from the Chinese-American takeout restaurant around the corner.
I regret allowing my misplaced pride during my 20s to get in the way of maintaining the closeness Aunt Nip and I had when I was younger. We went decades without speaking. I reached out during the years to reconcile, but we never reconnected. The last time we saw each other, I can’t remember if we even had a conversation despite being in the same room only a few feet apart. Nevertheless, I hope she knew how much she shaped me and took some pride in how I turned out. Regret often leaves a bad taste in the sufferer’s mouth, but every time I taste a pomegranate or eat a gyro, I think of my Aunt Nip and reminisce of the flavorful life she inspired for me.
Today marks forty-one years since my grandmother, Annie Ruth Hankins, died. She was one year older than I am now. I have few memories of her, but those I do have serve as explanation and inspiration for the many things that define me.
Annie Ruth and my great-grandmother raised me for the first eight years of my life. My mother worked and attended nursing school in Washington, D.C. during the majority of my childhood. Mick, the family nickname for my mother, was a voice on the phone on Sunday evenings and summer vacation visits. Annie Ruth prepared breakfasts, supervised baths, and selected school clothing. I can smell the liver pudding, grits, and scrambled eggs she made for me before I walked out the door on my way to school. Annie Ruth made sure before I left the house my hair was plaited with bows and ponytail holders, my clothes were ironed to the point of being sharp enough to cut, and somewhere on my person was a pin. Be it of a pencil, a school bus, or a kitty cat, it was on my person. Mick was the theory while Annie Ruth was the reality of my maternal nurturing.
Peep the Pencil pin-Third Grade Class Photo
When I consider how intertwined my grandmother was in my early life, her initial reaction to me seems at odds. Mick told me the first time my grandmother saw me, she refused to hold me. Annie Ruth, a licensed practical nurse whose career was cut short by a diagnosis of lupus when she was in her thirties, expected her only child to create a new life for herself in Washington, D.C.. She didn’t expect that new life to arrive in the form of a six-pound baby girl. During our first visit when I was three months old, My mother says Annie Ruth didn’t say much. Mick said she flew back to D.C. under a cloud of maternal disappointment. However, those feelings seemingly evaporated during the spring of 1972 when Annie Ruth called and asked when her grandbaby was coming home.
While I had my grandmother Annie Ruth for a short period of my life, the strongest memory involves seafood. The Cape Fear River borders my hometown of Southport, North Carolina. Generations of my family and other members of the community earned their living through fishing and shrimping. Yet, for me, the high point of the time I spent with my Annie Ruth was when we went crabbing.
North Carolina aquacultural experts list blue crab fishing as North Carolina’s most valuable fishery. It earns this distinction based on the pounds landed and the revenue produced. The crustaceans dwell in all twenty-eight North Carolina coastal waters, but the Albermarle and Pamlico Sounds, a few hundred miles up the coast from my hometown, yield the largest catches.
When I was younger, my family owned a piece of water-front property. We called it ‘The Creek.’ It was a wide swarth of marshland connected to the Intracoastal Waterway. The family would gather on Sunday mornings in the summer to socialize and catch fresh seafood. We would pack snacks and play 70s R&B as we bumped down the dirt road to the water’s edge. Once we arrived, my aunts would sit on truck tailgates and talk, my older cousins would fling their lines to catch fish, and the younger children would attempt to collect blue crabs.
The method we used is called ‘chicken necking.’ It involved tieing a piece of chicken or turkey to a fishing line or thin rope. We would toss one end in the water and tie the other end to a piece of wood that we would be holding in our hands. Then, we watched for a pull, which indicated the crab had locked onto the bait. When that happened, we alerted an adult who would swoop in with a net and capture the crab
I remember Annie Ruth’s patient face as she instructed me how to tie the line so the crab wouldn’t just grab the morsel and go. She understood giving a child a task kept them engaged and less likely to wander from the group. Her lesson of paying attention to the line to watch for any motion lest the crab got away forced me to retain focus on the assignment. Taking heed to what life presents so the opportunity to obtain your goal doesn’t get away proves to have been applicable in numerous circumstances since then.
Annie Ruth’s enthusiasm when our efforts yielded good results caused me to beam in pride at my fishing ability. Keep in mind, for every crab I caught, my cousins produced dozens using traps flung further out into the water. We would stay at the creek for hours until everyone was either satisfied with the amount of seafood caught or tired of being bit by mosquitos. The family would then move to my Aunt Lizzie Mae’s, where we would sprawl out in the back yard to enjoy the bounty. When I close my eyes, I can still hear my grandmother laughing. It is such a pleasant memory.
Depending on the catch, we either boiled the crabs along with seafood seasoning. If we managed to get crabs in between molting when the shells were soft, we would dip them in batter and fry them. I later learned soft shell crab is a delicacy. Back then, it was simply dinner.
As an adult, I realize those days when my grandmother Annie Ruth found herself able to enjoy herself were rare. Lupus flareups cause sufferers to struggle to perform daily tasks. It causes painful, swollen joints and hair loss. My grandmother’s disease also caused her to develop Raynaud’s phenomenon in her hands, but she still managed to do my hair every morning. Annie Ruth died the Monday before Thanksgiving–dinner wasn’t the same that year.
Annie Ruth, Mick and me
My family took more crabbing trips in the future, but after we sold the land, those trips ended.
We still get together to eat blue crabs. In fact, we ate blue crabs last month as part of a repass after my aunt Gloria’s funeral. Unfortunately, I left before the food finished cooking. Eating blue crabs has never been the same for me, so I cherish the memories of my grandmother and the lessons she taught me.
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