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Frankie E. Lennon
I came squalling into the world on a Tuesday, January 11, at 11:55 p.m. According to my godmother, Edna Arter, I was the only baby in the nursery who kept up a continuous, ungodly howling all night. I weighed in at 8 pounds and measured 18 ½ inches, had copper-colored hair, black-brown eyes, and yellow-brown skin. I didn’t wait long to discover my hands; maybe that’s the reason that I laughed aloud at the end of two months. Who knows? By the third month, I was holding my feet; and the next month, I turned over to check the lay of the land. At 9 months, I took step number one; and by 10 months, I was strolling right along with no help.
Before long, I found out that I was the only offspring of George H. and Mary Estelle Lennon. That my mother’s only living relative was her sister, Annie E. Reynolds. That I had two paternal uncles: Edgar Frank, (whom I was named for) married to Helen, and Madison C.B., married to Claire. And that I was the only evidence of family continuity. My only cousin, Uncle Frank’s son, had died before I was born. Nobody else had any children.
Growing up, I was in perpetual conflict with my last name. I never quite understood or accepted the depth of impact my father’s spectacular career as a high school coach had on Black people all over the south. For that day, time, and place, everybody knew my Daddy and Mama—even White people. It didn’t help any that Uncle Frank was high up on the visibility radar too as one of a handful of Black doctors in Knoxville. I found out early on that this last name I had inherited I was astonishingly well-known. This was not the kind of information that I greeted with relish because I could see I was going to have a hard row to hoe with that name branded on my forehead: No bubble gum chewing, no playing pranks, no cutting school, no fighting, no sassing teachers, no talking in church. I thought I was going to be condemned to a dull and boring life all because of my last name. What a pain!
Frankie E. Lennon
I came squalling into the world on a Tuesday, January 11, at 11:55 p.m. According to my godmother, Edna Arter, I was the only baby in the nursery who kept up a continuous, ungodly howling all night. I weighed in at 8 pounds and measured 18 ½ inches, had copper-colored hair, black-brown eyes, and yellow-brown skin. I didn’t wait long to discover my hands; maybe that’s the reason that I laughed aloud at the end of two months. Who knows? By the third month, I was holding my feet; and the next month, I turned over to check the lay of the land. At 9 months, I took step number one; and by 10 months, I was strolling right along with no help.
Before long, I found out that I was the only offspring of George H. and Mary Estelle Lennon. That my mother’s only living relative was her sister, Annie E. Reynolds. That I had two paternal uncles: Edgar Frank, (whom I was named for) married to Helen, and Madison C.B., married to Claire. And that I was the only evidence of family continuity. My only cousin, Uncle Frank’s son, had died before I was born. Nobody else had any children.
Growing up, I was in perpetual conflict with my last name. I never quite understood or accepted the depth of impact my father’s spectacular career as a high school coach had on Black people all over the south. For that day, time, and place, everybody knew my Daddy and Mama—even White people. It didn’t help any that Uncle Frank was high up on the visibility radar too as one of a handful of Black doctors in Knoxville. I found out early on that this last name I had inherited I was astonishingly well-known. This was not the kind of information that I greeted with relish because I could see I was going to have a hard row to hoe with that name branded on my forehead: No bubble gum chewing, no playing pranks, no cutting school, no fighting, no sassing teachers, no talking in church. I thought I was going to be condemned to a dull and boring life all because of my last name. What a pain!
