After the Civil War, Black farmers had the most farmland they would ever own in the United States — almost 20 million acres. But decade after decade, a host of race-related atrocities (often perpetuated with the help of the government), virtually stripped this land from the hands of Black farmers. With very few exceptions, most of these involuntary land losses were generated from policies and procedures that involved dispossession loopholes. So the long question now is: what can property owners do to prevent further erosion of this now scarce commodity? The short answer is: Not much and Everything.

Property that is passed down through generations and shared by relatives is called heirship, commonly referred to as heirs’ property. This is because property passed down in this manner (intestate) is done so without the benefits of a will. Without a will designating to whom the property belongs, all blood relatives become heirs; i.e. they all own equal share of the property. Land ownerships held by an assortment of heirs can be tricky to navigate. Without proof of transfer (a clear title), it is often difficult to determine who the actual owners are, especially if the deeds remain in the deceased person(s) name(s).

What can we do, in 2023 and onward, after so much Black involuntary land loss (20 million acres by 1910; 14+ million acres since)? The lesson learned is to hold on tighter to those few acres of blood, sweat and generational tears that remain in the sacred core of our ancestors’ hopes, dreams and fears. Disparities in the social justice systems and our inability to secure and sustain these systems are still in the troubling stage. This is why a plan for the transfer of your property (a will or transfer on death deed) should be the first order of your land ownership business. DO IT!

There are some words that, even if you don’t know what they mean, you get bad vibes from just seeing or hearing them being spoken. Dispossession is one of those words. It is not a really long word, and can be easily broken into its four smaller parts. But when you say or hear it, other “dis” words tend to come to mind: disrespect, disagree, dispute, disloyal, disconnect, disease, disqualify, dispose …… These words are often disturbing, distasteful and disconcerting.

So what is dispossession (prefix “dis” meaning negative, not, none) anyway?

Set in Mississippi at the height of the Depression, this is the story of one family’s struggle to maintain their integrity and pride in the face of racism and social injustice. And it is also the story of Cassie Logan, an independent girl who discovers over the course of an important year why having land of their own is important.

With the beginning of the new year approaching, and an unexpected surgery behind me, and a historical pandemic and subsequent quarantine that forced me both inside and inward, I began to feel compelled to move forward, at any cost, towards a quest that, until then, I had never really had the gall to dig from the bottom of my bucket list. With this compulsion, I fell into the habit of reflecting upon my connections to both the people and the journey that make up my family’s individual and collective identities.

I was born September 27, 1944, the last of my father’s kids to be born in Natchez, Monroe County, Alabama. This was also the birthplace of both of my parents, grandparents, and my American ancestors as far back as I can substantiate. My father used to farm on his father’s land. According to my mother, one day, shortly before my birth, while my father was plowing the field in preparation for a spring crop, a White man appeared from the road and told him, “Take your horse and your plow and get off this land and don’t come back. You don’t own it anymore.” Bewildered and at a loss for words, my father decided that the best and safest course of action was to comply. A few months later, my father left the land of his birth and moved to Moss Point, Mississippi.

I’ve always known of Grandpa John Henry in one way or another. There are two pictures (actually portraits) of him on the wall of the home where I grew up. In one likeness, he’s a sleepy-eyed older fella with a rather pudgy body. In the other, he’s younger: tall and debonair, unassuming and serious. Legend has it that he was somewhat of an entrepreneur, tenacious in his pursuits, but fair and practical. Court records show that he had possessions far above those of his peers. In my imagination, he’s both stern and witty, sober and savvy, a gifted storyteller, like his son, my father, Willie Lee.