On being Portuguese - or not

When I was a little girl, I asked my grandfather ( who was really my great-uncle and a whole other subject) about his parents. He said that his people came from Portugal. So I always included that tidbit when asked about my ancestry. Turns out there are no cute little white houses with red tile roofs in our family. My grandfather was passing down a mythology which he was given as a young lad. The real story is that, going pretty far back, there were some free people of African ancestry in the Carolinas who married with white folk. These claims of Portuguese ancestry were likely used to deflect an association with the African roots which would have limited their access to goods and services.  It turns out that my grandfather's family is related to a well-known mixed race family, the Ashworths. Thanks to my newly found Ashworth relative, Kathryn Priest, for sharing the following  This article that fills in more of the story. To see how wide spread this practice has been check out this Huffington Post article - So what is a melungeon?

 Here is my great-uncle, Abbie Foster, who told me the story about our Portuguese ancestors. His brother, Edison Foster, was my grandfather and the father of my mother and my aunt Roberta. Edison divorced my grandmother, Ellen Miller Foster, shortly after my mother was born. Growing up, my mother and aunt visited him in Louisiana during the summer (he re-married). So in a nutshell, my grandmother married her ex-husband's brother and growing up I thought of Abbie as my grandfather.

    Abbie Foster (1903-1972)

My Grandfather (AKA great-uncle) was a a quiet man. He was definitely 2nd fiddle to my very vocal and strong-willed Grandmother, aka the Commander-in-chief.  Abbie was deeply religious and went to church every Sunday. "Brother" Abbie was a pillar of the church but not a leader. His church of choice was a few blocks from his home in Port Arthur. This was a small fundamentalist type Church of the Nazerenes. I went there many times as a child when I stayed overnight with my grandparents. It seemed quite different than the much more sophisticated and restrained Presbyterian church that I regularly attended with my mother and father. People looked different at my Grandfather's church. The ladies grew their hair long, did not shave their legs, and wore no makeup. They looked colorless or bleached out. I remember being particularly fascinated by that fact. I am sure my eyes grew quite big as I observed various members of the congregation. It would spook me a little when people would say AMEN during the service. Presbyterians never spoke out loud during a church service.  Presbyterians sing when asked to, but remain totally silent during a church service. The Nazerene church also did those full immersion baptisms instead of sprinkling. There was a little pool behind the altar. This was also a source of amazement for me.

My Grandmother stood out in this crowd of Ameners and pale faces. She was always well dressed, legs shaved, makeup on, and wore patent leather high heels with a matching purse. I don't know what the congregation made of Sister Foster.

Abbie Foster worked for the Texas Company which later became Texaco. He worked in the refinery. I think he turned switches on and off. He belonged to the union, AFL-CIO. My dad was management. When there was a strike, my Dad went to work and my Grandfather stayed home.

Grandpa had relatives in Louisiana in Calcasieu Parrish not too far from the state line. We often went to Lake Charles or to Starks. We used to visit Leo Foster regularly which I think was Grandpa's nephew. Leo lived in a small white house near on in Starks. He was a big man with striking blue eyes and always wore blue overalls often without an undershirt.  Mother said that he was very good-looking as a young man. He had three daughters who were all very pretty and older than I. The home was wood frame, definitely rural and probably off a dirt road. When I was little, I remember they had one of those manual crank washing machines that was in the backyard. They lived near cane fields and on at least one occasion I watched a harvest and smelled the cane being boiled in a big vat.  I remember at some point realizing that these folks did not have a lot of money, before that I thought of it as a grand adventure and was not aware of the lack of conveniences that I was used to.