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Now I Know Who I Look Like!

By Kathy Taylor Dejoie

My father’s sister, the official keeper of old family photos, recently informed me that it was time for me to take over the responsibility of caring for the photos of members of my little branch of our family tree. She was, as she put it, officially passing the torch my way.

Assuming that it would be a lot of fun to sift through a few old photos, I eagerly dropped by her house one Sunday afternoon, with the intention of simply picking up my little package of photos, and returning home where I could look through them at my leisure.

Watching Nanny Dree' pull out envelopes, bags and boxes of old faded photos; I soon realized that there was more to this torch-passing ritual than previously thought.

As my two aunts, my father and I began looking through the photos, the three of them passing them around in an attempt to identify some of the people in older ones, I happened upon a photo of a woman who looked a lot like me!

“Hey! I look like this woman! Who is she?”

“That’s your great-great grandmother Milanes from Cuba,” said Nanny Dree'. “And now you know who you look like!”

I was thrilled! As we went through box after box of old photos, attempting to organize the wind-blown leaves of the family tree, I kept going back to the photo of “Mama Milanes,” as Nanny told me she was called.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t look like anybody in my family – it’s just that I don’t think I look very much like either one of my parents. Oh, I look a little like one aunt on my mom’s side and a little like a cousin on Dad’s side. But, up until that rainy Sunday evening, I figured I simply look like a combination of the two families.

My discovery of this old photo was not the first time I was identified with an ancestor. Many years ago, while visiting Cane River, LA during their annual Christmas celebration, I was sitting on the ground with a group of people waiting for the fireworks to start, when I noticed a middle-aged woman smiling at me. I smiled back, and continued laughing and talking to those in my little group.

A few minutes later, I looked her way, and again, caught the lady staring and smiling at me. I went over to her and introduced myself.

She said, “Forgive me for staring, but you remind me of someone I knew a long time ago.”

(Now, what you have to understand is that, we were about 300 miles from my hometown of New Orleans.)

“You wouldn’t know her, though. She was from New Orleans, and she died a long time ago.”

“I’m from New Orleans,” I said. “What was her name?”

“Oh, she was much older than you are. I’m sure you wouldn’t know her. It’s just that something about the sound of your laugh, and even the tilt of your head reminded me of her. That’s why I was staring. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that’s okay. Maybe I know her family. What was her name?” I asked.

“Geri Jeffrion. But like I said, she died a long time ago.”

I froze. “What did you say her name was?”

“Geri Jeffrion – don’t tell me you knew her…” the woman’s face registered shock and disbelief.

“She was my great aunt,” I smiled as I leaned over to hug her. “And I do remember her.”

As we embraced, we felt in each other’s arms the warmth and love of my long-gone great aunt.

We sat on a little hill, surrounded by hundreds of people, yet totally oblivious to the sights and sounds of the fireworks as their mirror images reflected off the river illuminating our faces in greens, reds and gold. We both had traveled 300 miles to see the world-famous “Celebration of the Lights,” but instead, spent most of the evening huddled together swapping stories about my Aunt Geri.

I was both touched and proud that I reminded this woman of my aunt. You see, although I vaguely remembered her, the little that I did remember, was very good indeed.

Years later, Aunt Geri’s son, who is closer to my dad's age than mine, said, “You can’t possibly remember my mother. You were too young when she died.”

With a mischievous smile I replied, “I remember going to her house and running straight to the nightstand in her bedroom, because I knew that was where she kept a can of those big round “magic” mints that dissolve in your mouth!”

“You remember those mints?” Byron asked, astonished.

“I remember those mints because they were too big for my mouth, so I’d hold one in my hand and lick it – getting more of the sticky juice on my hands and down my wrists than in my mouth,” I smiled.

“But, she never fussed. She just laughed and wiped my hands and mouth when I was through making a pink sticky mess of myself.”

Byron became extremely quiet. I could see the tear forming in his eyes as he softly said, “You do remember.”

When we’re kids, it’s important for us to “look” like a parent or grandparent. And I believe that there is special bond between the child and the relative he most resembles.

My oldest son, for instance, has always looked exactly like me. He often used this against his younger brother, who looked more like his father’s side when he was younger. With taunts of, “Face it, Dev, you’re adopted. Look in the mirror - you don’t look like me and Mom,” he often brought his younger brother to tears. Fortunately, they grew out of the sibling rivalry stage, and are now closer than conjoined twins. Oh, and the older he gets, the more Dev is beginning to look like me. And he revels in it.  Blaine now has daughter, who according to my parents, looks exactly like me when I was her age. Even her maternal grandparents have commented on how much De'Ana looks like me.  And I love it!

My boys, and now my granddaughter, are blessed in that they will always be able to identify with a living, breathing person with whom they share most of their facial features, as well as a few mannerisms.

I’ve had relatives say of me, “I don’t know where she gets her ways from.”

Now, an old faded photo may hold the key to that mystery as well. But, I’ll never know for sure. You see, my great-grandmother passed away years ago, and her children, including my dear grandmother are long gone as well. I therefore, have no one to ask if I did indeed get my “ways” as well as my looks from Mama Milanes.

Mama Milanes, Kathy, De'Ana - you be the judge!

I have no clue as to the sound of her voice, nor of her personality traits or quirks.

All that’s left are a few faded photos, and my (sometimes quite vivid) imagination, which comes in quite handy during a situation like this one.

I imagine that our resemblance extends far beyond a physical likeness. I like to think that her life revolved around her children, nieces, nephews and grandchildren, that she loved a good joke, enjoyed music, was an excellent cook, and really liked dogs! Yeah, that sounds about right.

Thanks, Mama Milanes! I finally know who I look like! 

(Thankfully, I began scanning and burning all the old photos on disks when I got home. As we prepared to evacuate for Hurricane Katrina, one of the first things I packed was that disk!  Please - scan and burn all your photos, and send copies to relatives who live away for safe keeping!)