I remember being nine years old and hearing the whispers at the family reunion. The mysterious woman in the sunglasses, real light, smoking a cigarette, was causing quite a stir. I had no idea why, and then someone told me, “That’s your Nebraska cousin Willa Mae. She think she white.” From that day forward, I could never forget her.
In 2008, after coaxing the full name of my cousin out of my Nana, I hit the Internet and started searching. Willa Mae Watson Lane. It was pretty unique and very country. How many could there possibly be in Omaha, Nebraska? I quickly found out, not many. When I called the number listed, a younger woman picked up the phone. I asked for Willa Mae and she said she wasn’t there but that I could talk to her daughter Becky Jo. When Becky picked up the phone, I launched into my long explanation of why I was calling and ended with, “I’m your cousin and I’m Black. You’re Black.” She laughed and said, “That explains why I have to straighten my hair.”
Becky and her siblings had no idea that her parents had been passing as white, but here I was on Martin Luther King Jr. Day lifting the veil of a mystery that she had lived her entire life. I could almost hear her understanding fall into place. She asked me a ton of questions, many of which I had the answers to. We are a huge family originally from Summerton, South Carolina, descended from Black people and Irish slave owners. Over time, almost everyone migrated to Philadelphia and New Jersey, and still live there today. We are doctors, teachers, police officers, artists, and, most of all, a family who love getting together and never miss a reunion. She asked why I had decided to find them, and I told her that I couldn’t help but think that they might be looking for us. She paused, then told me that she had always been searching but never knew exactly where to look.
That’s your Nebraska cousin Willa Mae. She think she white.
In the summer of 2016, she called me to tell me that her doctor had given her clearance to fly to South Carolina to attend the reunion. I was beyond ecstatic. After years of trying to meet, it was finally going to happen. I called my friend Amber Fares, an amazing documentary cinematographer and asked her if she was free and wanted to go to Summerton. Being the world traveler that she is, she jumped at the chance. We had two weeks to plan: book flights, cars, and hotel rooms. I barely thought about how we were going to shoot it, but I knew that I wanted it to be intimate, maybe a little funny, and beautiful. Becky let me know that she was definitely going to make it and that her niece Jeannene was going to drive down from Maryland.
As I waited anxiously in the airport for Becky to deplane, my Nana’s voice rang in my head, “Nothing is more important than family.” When I embraced Becky for the first time, I felt that we were healing a wound that had been made by her parents. Their decision to pass had separated all their children not only from their family but from their culture as well. Becky Jo was ready to embrace the truth and be part of her larger family, but not all her siblings shared the same sentiment. In fact, many of them simply couldn’t believe that it was true. They had lived their lives being questioned again and again about their identities, even getting into physical fights to claim their “whiteness.” How does one forgive the greatest lie of your parents? How can you process that level of betrayal?
She told me that she had always been searching but never knew exactly where to look.
At the reunion, Becky and Jeannene were greeted with open arms, and much to their surprise, everyone shared a story about their mother and grandmother. We all knew Mae because throughout the years, she would attend the reunions in secret. Sneaking back east to see everyone without telling her children a word about it. She understood the value of her family but couldn’t bring herself to share it with her children.
It was a beautiful thing to see Becky and Jeannene experiencing so many firsts. I tried to put myself in their shoes throughout the weekend. How must it feel to know that you are not who you thought you were? To see and touch the ground where your mother lived and breathed? To see your face in the face of strangers? Overall, they handled it all with grace, and then came the portion of the trip where I was to fly to Omaha to meet the younger generation.
They had lived their lives being questioned again and again about their identities
I had never been to Omaha or anywhere in Nebraska for that matter. I expected corn, flat roads, and white people. I got that, but I was also surprised by the large Somali community. I remember walking downtown, turning the corner, and walking into a group of six-foot-seven beautiful Somali men and being so taken aback that all I could do was smile in their presence. The purpose of heading out west was to meet with Josh and his sister Katie. Josh had reached out to me via Facebook after learning the truth of their family from Becky Jo. He then told his dad and his two sisters. Katie was living in Omaha at the time and agreed to meet with me, but their dad refused. I tried to focus on the positive and met with Katie and Josh. Josh was 100 percent down from the first moment we met. In fact, we shared a lot of similarities and interests. He put me at ease and made me feel welcome, and I am forever grateful for that.
When we met up with Katie, I could feel her apprehension and disbelief. Who was I, and was I even telling the truth? It’s hard to imagine that someone would go to such great lengths to make up such a story, but crazier things have happened. I understood her hesitation and tried my best to put her at ease. I was desperate to meet with their dad, because he simply didn’t believe that it was true. I wanted to stand in front of him and say, “Hey, I am your family too.” But he wasn’t ready, and I had to accept that.
Omaha was hard. I left feeling both rejected and sad. Becky and I had worked so hard to build a relationship, a bond over family history and ancestry, but none of her siblings were interested. Looking back through the photos that Becky had shared with me over the years, I could see how easy it was for Willa Mae to make the leap. She looked like most of the women of my grandmother’s generation. Extremely fair with dark, wavy black hair. Any one of them could have passed; in fact, all of them could have if they wanted to, but every single one of them except for Willa Mae married dark-skinned Black men. It’s as if they wanted to make it clear that they knew which side of the world they belonged to and claimed it proudly. And now, here I was, two generations later, looking into the faces of white people who couldn’t believe in the possibility of their own Blackness.
I returned to Brooklyn wondering what was going to come of all this. A year and half later, I was having coffee with a friend who suggested I talk to a woman she knew at Topic Studios because she might be interested. I told her my story, and she was thrilled. They believed in my vision, the importance of sharing my family’s story, and helped me make it happen. Passing: A Family in Black & White is my homage to all the Black families who have lost members to the sickness that is white supremacy. May we all find each other again.
Robin Cloud's docu-series, Passing: A Family in Black & White, executive produced by Topic/First Look Media, premiered at the Tribeca Film Festival in 2019.