Still Here: Mrs. Doretha Poe of Center Union
It was a beautiful Saturday morning—clear and bright, yet colder than usual. A sharp breeze came and went in restless cycles, announcing winter’s presence as Season One of Still Here, the Community Oral History Series, quietly began. That morning, I had the honor and privilege of capturing oral history with Mrs. Doretha Poe, an elder of the Center Union Community.
I arrived nearly forty-five minutes early, hoping to record the opening introduction outdoors, framed by the historic Center Union and Longview Communities’ one-room schoolhouses. Now joined together on ancestral land, the buildings serve as a living community center—one space for meals, fundraisers, and fellowship; the other an auditorium holding old photographs, wooden desks, chairs, and a podium that carry decades of memory. Two restrooms remain operational, a small but meaningful detail in a place still actively used.
The morning, however, did not arrive without hiccups. The wind beat against me relentlessly, rocking the camera and stand despite added weights. Retakes followed retakes. Between attempts, I prayed. I asked God to calm the wind—just long enough for one clean recording. When prayer wasn’t enough, I sang praises, anchoring myself as best I could while trying again.
Relief arrived when Edee Denmon pulled into the lot. As she always does, she opened the buildings, hurried inside, turned on the heaters, and helped settle the space. Together, we climbed chairs—she holding steady while I reached up to pull cords and shut off the fans. Only then did I realize I had unknowingly passed the car where her mother sat waiting. I was so cold, so focused, that I hadn’t noticed her at all.
When Mrs. Dorethea Poe entered, she greeted me gently. “You must have been so cold you didn’t see me sitting in the car,” she said with a smile. Embarrassed, I apologized, explaining how eager—and cold—I had been. She understood immediately.
That day, I worked alone. There was no extra help to set up equipment or manage lighting. Because of my own light sensitivity—stemming from a triple rollover car accident in 2018—and my deep respect for elders who may have sensitivities of their own, we made intentional choices together. Mrs. Poe did not want her face on camera. We honored that. The camera was positioned to the side. She reviewed the screen and said softly, “That’s okay.” We were ready.
I sat across from her with cue cards in hand, questions carefully prepared. What followed felt stiff—more interview than conversation. Still, she answered each question graciously. When we finished, I reached for the equipment—and my heart dropped. We had never pressed record.
Nothing had been captured.
With a community meeting scheduled to begin in less than thirty minutes, I assumed we were done. But Mrs. Poe, with kindness and resolve, agreed to do it again. This time, I set the cue cards aside. We didn’t need them anymore. We knew each other now.
What followed was different—real, flowing, human. We laughed together about the mishap, and the conversation unfolded naturally. In that second recording, she shared stories not heard the first time—and yet some precious details from the initial take live only in memory.
She spoke of being a young girl asked by her mother to work in the cotton fields. Uninterested and untrained, she cut the plants down green. The overseer told her mother, “Don’t bring that child back.” She didn’t want the fields anyway. Later, when her aunt came to Texas, she left for Iowa, where she lived for 26 years—finishing her education and working various jobs. One winter, after a snowstorm dumped 27 inches of snow and trapped her inside her home, she decided she had enough. She returned home to Center Union, where she has lived for the past 50 years.
Throughout both conversations, one theme remained constant: love. The love of this community, she shared, is like thread knitting a blanket together—connecting families, generations, and histories. It is deeply rooted in the soil.
After five years of being welcomed into Center Union, I can attest to that truth. The love here is palpable—boundaryless. It is shared freely and held collectively. It remains alive today.
As Still Here launches its first season, we look forward to honoring elders, longtime residents, and younger community members who wish to preserve their family stories. These histories matter. They deserve care, consent, and protection.
Those interested in participating can visit Lulu-writes, choose an episode that resonates, and complete the Google form. Someone will follow up to schedule an oral history recording.
We are still here—listening, preserving, and bearing witness.
