Since my first marriage I have been mindful of the possibility of my having an addictive aspect to my personality. I have, since that time, had many other indications that have privately moved possibility to probability and I have become even more guarded against the development of new habits with that potential. As the years have passed, fewer and fewer vitally deteriorating pursuits have stimulated my interest and I have became lax – let my guard down – suspended my vigilance. I took up the pursuit of my family’s origins, my genealogy – my roots. After all, it was an interesting, restful, inexpensive way to spend some casual time.

At first, I was fairly prudent. It was a hobby, a spare time activity. A little bit here. A little bit there. I organized the easy stuff; the stuff I knew for sure, and what was easily accessible through inheritance or absent minded collecting. Pictures, letters, newspaper clippings, funeral notices, diplomas, and certificates of marriage—birth and death. These were carefully placed in file folders appropriately labeled. I made index cards to reference the folders similarly labeled. I jotted notes on items I vaguely remembered or wanted to inquire about—possible sources, possible leads—and filed them appropriately. Very tidy.

Soon the word spread and relatives began to send me pictures, letters, newspaper clippings, funeral notices and other stuff that clogged their trunks and bookshelves. There were also conversations with kin which produced names (both familiar and unfamiliar), nicknames, family stories, gossip, speculation on murky secrets, varied interpretations of a well known event and facts (second hand) passed down from relatives no longer accessible. This gave rise to notes written on envelopes, greeting card backs, message pads, magazine covers, match books, the edges of newspapers and anything else that gathered around the telephone. In that this was still a casual pursuit, the transcription and organization was approached casually. Very un-tidy.

Enter technology. Someone looked at the “informality” of the homemade archive and offered that there were computer programs specifically designed to organize and display this type of information. I researched and when I read the promises on the software box I was ON IT - irrespective of cost and the fact that I was “functionally technologically challenged” to put it gently. I quickly read enough of the instruction to master the basics. I then sat up all night and most of the next day tapping in relatives. At first, after every tenth entry I would test the system to make sure the box had been truthful. And, naturally, because of my quick perusal of the instructions and my natural deficiencies I never quite remembered what keys took you where. I even lost a few cousins temporarily. But finally, when those folks started lining up and relating like they should, it sent shivers up my spine. I now realize that was the point of no return. I didn’t eat or sleep. The names blurred and the letters slid and I persisted. I was on fire and didn’t stop tapping until not only were all the names in their spaces, but I had filled in all the facts, factoids, comments and, of course, gossip. I ran all of the “features” and made lists of them organized in all kinds of nonsensical ways. Of course by that time the program and I had become one. I was a Techie albeit in the narrowest sense. I lived to rearrange relatives.

Enter the internet. I started out with census tracts that were predictable and worked backwards. Some nights were barren. But I searched until I was bleary eyed, not wanting to have a wasted evening. However, on some nights relatives were popping like fleas. I would continue into the wee small hours, greedily looking for more. The more distant the year, the more illegible the writing and whimsical the information collected. I especially loved those oddities. Occasionally an actual address could be gleaned and I tried to picture the structure that stood on that patch of land. If a new, young name was present in the listing of a family and absent 10 years later, I grieved. I rejoiced when someone who had been identified as illiterate on the previous census was reading and writing on the next. I wondered if the William of 1850 was anything like the Billy of 1934. I was annoyed by the arrogance of the “Taker,”the person responsible for the census notes, when some name I had come to know was spelled carelessly. I was amused when a person went from black to mulatto and back. I watch with anticipation the progress of the column entitled “occupation.”

Now, when my eyes refuse to deal with another census table, I turn to the Great Google or do “background” work. I flesh out information I know about kinfolk of prominence or accomplishment. I read up on the times and conditions of Black folk in the areas where we began and migrated to. I have constructed timelines of what was going on nationally and in the world while certain ancestors were going about their lives. I gather information on folks that bring new names to the fold. And the folders have grown plentiful and fat. If I am too fatigued or have other necessary activities that limit my time to visit, I run through the program just to make sure everyone is still there. I have bored my immediate family to the point of politeness with each new discovery or theory. I’ve taken each grandchild through the maze and led them to themselves. I’m waiting for the great grands to read. I’m constantly on the look out for new kin. I scour the newspaper everyday and collect obituaries of recently deceased namesakes. I underline books and magazines. I question living but unfamiliar namesakes about their lineage. And when I make a bonified “hit” or there’s a birth, I scurry to the computer like Scrooge McDuck and open my vault to enter him or her like the precious jewel that they are.

I have finally admitted that my worst fear has been realized and I have a full blown addiction. I decided simultaneously that I’m past the point of rehab. I’m afraid it’s chronic and I can only continue to feed it. In fact I have some hope of passing (pushing?) this affliction forward; because, when the time comes and my file folder is completed, I want someone to open the vault and place me with the rest of the folks I have come to know, love and be grateful to.