Inherited from Dad, my last name is Booker. It was just a name, just an identifier for the soccer field, a label adopted by a few friends. Besides being in the same bloodline, nothing had linked me to Dad’s side of the family. Apart from that one Thanksgiving visit, we never travel up to Connecticut to visit the Bookers. Growing up, Dad told me adverse stories about his brothers and sisters from when he was a kid in Brooklyn. Often, Dad would spend time with my great-grandmother, Alice Evelyn Booker. She seemed to be the protagonist of his stories, now she’s the champion of mine. 
Enclosed in a plastic tub in our attic were Grandma Alice’s valuables from the mid-1900s. My family and I uncovered hundreds of antiquated stamps, letters, pictures, and four pieces of paper that intrigued me more than anything else. The aged notes were the outline, rough drafts, and final copy of a poem my great-grandmother wrote. I never imagined that someone I had never met could occupy the same hobby as myself. Writing poetry has always been an important part of my life and I indulge in my notebook nearly every day, so reading The Parting of the Ways instantly connected me to her in a way my family members cannot relate to. A new meaning was given to my last name. 
My last name is Booker. Bookers are poets. 

– MB

Relationship:  Great-grandchild of im/migrant or more Great-grandchild of im/migrant or more