Self Made: Theola Cudjoe Jones
CJKirkland.com
(An excerpt from Self Made: Boley Oklahoma)
My first conversation with Theola Cudjoe Jones is via telephone. It is intense, offering me a glimpse of what to expect when we meet in person. She doesn’t mince words and is clear in conveying exactly how she feels, leaving very little room for misinterpretation. Before I’ve had a chance to say much of anything I sit down at my desk and listen. Mrs. Cudjoe Jones has captured my undivided attention; it feels like something supernatural is pulling on me, compelling me to pay close attention. We’ve been on the phone for less than two minutes. I was only calling to schedule our interview, but I can’t hang up- not yet. So, I remain still and I listen. She has a few things to say before we meet face-to-face.
My first conversation with Theola Cudjoe Jones is via telephone. It is intense, offering me a glimpse of what to expect when we meet in person. She doesn’t mince words and is clear in conveying exactly how she feels, leaving very little room for misinterpretation. Before I’ve had a chance to say much of anything I sit down at my desk and listen. Mrs. Cudjoe Jones has captured my undivided attention; it feels like something supernatural is pulling on me, compelling me to pay close attention. We’ve been on the phone for less than two minutes. I was only calling to schedule our interview, but I can’t hang up- not yet. So, I remain still and I listen. She has a few things to say before we meet face-to-face.
“Too much blood was shed for us to have this land,” Mrs. Cudjoe Jones laments about Boley. Collectively, she continues, we haven’t been taught to respect Mother Earth and therefore, a town rich in history and materials is suffering. It grieved her spirit when, after 42 years, she returned to this land she loves and saw signs of neglect. She takes responsibility for her part in it, having moved away for so long. But she’s returned and wants to contribute to its reawakening- which she views as a certainty, not a pipe dream. “I dream of Boley. It is still big and great.” Restoring the land and reviving the town is not merely for those of us who are still living, she warns. We all bear the responsibility to do something for the children of Boley: “Every generation has a certain amount to build and grow...it takes a community to keep a city afloat.” Mrs. Cudjoe Jones points out that the work has already begun, citing the park at the entrance to Boley’s “main street”. With its vibrant fire engine red bridge spanning across a small bubbling creek, it is a beautiful gateway into the historic town. As for the person behind the park’s development, Karen Ekuban, she proclaims, “I believe the Lord sent Karen to Boley for a reason. He sends humble [people] to build bridges over troubled waters.”
Sitting at the table, across from Mrs. Cudjoe Jones in her living room, I am no less captivated by her than I was during our phone conversation. There is an energy here: a discernible sense of warmth and acceptance, which contrasts the stern way she speaks of what we must do, as a people, to honor the gift we were given in the Town of Boley. Abigail Barnett McCormick, a Creek Freedwoman, bequeathed the land on which Boley sits to “complete strangers” Mrs. Cudjoe Jones states, when she could very well have used it to make money. The town thrived, in her estimation, because everyone was sharing what they had with people they knew nothing about. They were led by their hearts and Boley, a spiritual center as she sees it, grew because “[it was] all about the heart… [There was] one common people in Boley.”
Coming into Boley, back then, from the surrounding towns was like going to Oklahoma City today. People came here to party. They pulled up in new cars, wearing new clothes, and hamburgers cost 25 cents. You remembered the good times you had, and the people you shared those times with. “It hurts,” she says, without taking her eyes off of mine, “what it’s become.” She discusses death, in both literal and spiritual forms, leading us both to consider that in death there is life- and there is much life left in her beloved hometown. It is all about honoring the ancestors, keeping a pure heart, respecting the richness of the land, and recognizing when the time is to be obedient in doing what your spirit is asking you to do for the betterment of Boley. “You can’t do it until the appointed time. Everybody has a purpose. Everybody has a gift.”
Boley is a town of wealth, she explains, because it is still standing and still owns the very soil upon which it was built. “As long as you have land, you have richness. Man can make anything but land.” There are things that can be done- places restored- to pay homage to the men and women on whose shoulders everything was built, stone by stone. A rhythm was broken when Boley High School closed, Mrs. Cudjoe Jones contends with a quivering voice. The town’s children need a school, and a library as well. There is desperate need for a grocery store, just a small one, where the residents can find nourishment. Yes, she understands the financial commitment these all require, but she believes it can be done.
“What I dream of Boley can be seen and felt. I look at the beauty that’s there. They still have the land.” As long as they have the land, she is certain those with the right heart and spirit can rebuild Boley. “It was foreseen that that park would be there,” Mrs. Cudjoe Jones asserts, and there is much more to come. I have to take a few moments to regain my composure because as soon as she uttered that statement, I was shaken to my core by its truth. We sit quietly for a few moments as I try to understand what is happening in this space; why my heart is beating a little faster and it feels as though something is stuck in my throat. “The spirit of Abigail is with us,” she says softly. I believe her.
Before we part ways, Mrs. Cudjoe Jones tells me how important it is to her that the words she’s shared with me are written down. Not for her, but for the generations that will follow. “You never stop learning…I am telling a story. Who will tell [it] when I’m gone? Put it on paper and keep your history.” As I’m driving away from her home, her land, I’m engrossed in thought about what I experienced with her, more so than what I heard. It isn’t farfetched to visualize Boley as she does. It’s not ludicrous to look around and see homes (and hearts) restored, businesses reopened, and people coming from surrounding towns to see what all the fuss is about. It’s unlikely that we’ll ever pay 25 cents for a hamburger again, but it is worth holding on to that Boley will again be the spirited epicenter it once was. Because it still has its land.
Sitting at the table, across from Mrs. Cudjoe Jones in her living room, I am no less captivated by her than I was during our phone conversation. There is an energy here: a discernible sense of warmth and acceptance, which contrasts the stern way she speaks of what we must do, as a people, to honor the gift we were given in the Town of Boley. Abigail Barnett McCormick, a Creek Freedwoman, bequeathed the land on which Boley sits to “complete strangers” Mrs. Cudjoe Jones states, when she could very well have used it to make money. The town thrived, in her estimation, because everyone was sharing what they had with people they knew nothing about. They were led by their hearts and Boley, a spiritual center as she sees it, grew because “[it was] all about the heart… [There was] one common people in Boley.”
Coming into Boley, back then, from the surrounding towns was like going to Oklahoma City today. People came here to party. They pulled up in new cars, wearing new clothes, and hamburgers cost 25 cents. You remembered the good times you had, and the people you shared those times with. “It hurts,” she says, without taking her eyes off of mine, “what it’s become.” She discusses death, in both literal and spiritual forms, leading us both to consider that in death there is life- and there is much life left in her beloved hometown. It is all about honoring the ancestors, keeping a pure heart, respecting the richness of the land, and recognizing when the time is to be obedient in doing what your spirit is asking you to do for the betterment of Boley. “You can’t do it until the appointed time. Everybody has a purpose. Everybody has a gift.”
Boley is a town of wealth, she explains, because it is still standing and still owns the very soil upon which it was built. “As long as you have land, you have richness. Man can make anything but land.” There are things that can be done- places restored- to pay homage to the men and women on whose shoulders everything was built, stone by stone. A rhythm was broken when Boley High School closed, Mrs. Cudjoe Jones contends with a quivering voice. The town’s children need a school, and a library as well. There is desperate need for a grocery store, just a small one, where the residents can find nourishment. Yes, she understands the financial commitment these all require, but she believes it can be done.
“What I dream of Boley can be seen and felt. I look at the beauty that’s there. They still have the land.” As long as they have the land, she is certain those with the right heart and spirit can rebuild Boley. “It was foreseen that that park would be there,” Mrs. Cudjoe Jones asserts, and there is much more to come. I have to take a few moments to regain my composure because as soon as she uttered that statement, I was shaken to my core by its truth. We sit quietly for a few moments as I try to understand what is happening in this space; why my heart is beating a little faster and it feels as though something is stuck in my throat. “The spirit of Abigail is with us,” she says softly. I believe her.
Before we part ways, Mrs. Cudjoe Jones tells me how important it is to her that the words she’s shared with me are written down. Not for her, but for the generations that will follow. “You never stop learning…I am telling a story. Who will tell [it] when I’m gone? Put it on paper and keep your history.” As I’m driving away from her home, her land, I’m engrossed in thought about what I experienced with her, more so than what I heard. It isn’t farfetched to visualize Boley as she does. It’s not ludicrous to look around and see homes (and hearts) restored, businesses reopened, and people coming from surrounding towns to see what all the fuss is about. It’s unlikely that we’ll ever pay 25 cents for a hamburger again, but it is worth holding on to that Boley will again be the spirited epicenter it once was. Because it still has its land.
Want to read more? Self Made: Boley, Oklahoma is
available for purchase.
available for purchase.