Merriam-Webster defines “legacy” as…

something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past: the legacy of the ancient philosophers, or the war left a legacy of pain and suffering

We all have a legacy that has defined us. Perhaps we rebel against it at times, perhaps we have denied it, or perhaps we are unaware of how profoundly it has shaped our lives. Sometimes, for better or worse, we embrace our legacy in the form of career, culture, bias, opinion, or occupation. We are all different and yet, much the same.

As I walk around my house I see evidence of the legacy I have inherited from my ancestors: pictures, paintings, furniture, dishes, documents, and luggage. I’m sometimes shocked to look at a photo of myself, first assuming it was a picture of my dad. When my parents died, much of the contents of their home was given to other relatives who desired them or were willing to take them, much was donated to charity, and much more was simply discarded. All the things that I kept meant something to me. I didn’t have room for more “stuff”, I only kept what I just could not part with. Most of these things will mean nothing at all to my children.

As a child, my grandmother’s cookie jar, a ceramic chicken, was the first thing I would check when arriving at her house. It nearly always had something it it. Sometimes the cookies were homemade and sometimes they were store-bought, but she knew I would look as soon as I came into the house and she always had something ready. My great aunt’s cookie jar, a ceramic house, would only have homemade. It was on the table in a dark kitchen illuminated by a single light bulb, the only other light coming through an open door. There was a wood-burning stove and poverty. There’s no shame in poverty. Shame comes from gluttony.

Neither cookie jar was valuable. They probably both came from the variety store, but probably not directly. A gift, a hand-me-down — I never heard the story, but it was clear that each was valued. We kids dared not break the cookie jar for fear of reprisal and, worse yet, no more cookies. I have both of these cookie jars now. They have a few surface cracks from age, but that just gives them more character and proves they are genuine.

My great-great grandfather was a whittler. There was no Internet, television, or radio. When he wasn’t working, he had a little time to whittle. That’s nearly a lost art today. Too bad. I used to sit in front of the ice house with my grandfather. There were old lawn chairs and a bench with a Dr. Pepper sign on the back, all under a shade tree where the old men gathered to talk and whittle. The ground was covered with wood shavings and the air flowed with stories – some of them could have been true. They would whittle chains and boxes with a ball inside, all manner of challenges. Sometimes they would just make shavings. The old men swapped pocket knives and chewed tobacco. That’s where I learned that a man needed a pocket knife and should know how to keep it sharp. I’ve had one ever since. Cut myself a thousand times and wouldn’t have it any other way. The things my great-great grandfather made were amazing. My dad kept them packed away so they wouldn’t get broken. Some of them I only saw once or twice until after he had died.

 There are things handed down from our ancestors that we don’t want to keep. My mom collected bells. I don’t miss those bells, but they were fairly benign. There are items in my legacy that are more malignant, more insidious, that can’t be purged soon enough. The trick is awareness, finding the courage to admit to them, and to deny them outright.

One of my early Christmas gifts was a Civil War set: a box of plastic soldiers complete with artillery, bunkers, and ravaged buildings. You can still purchase these today. Being from Texas, when I played with these soldiers I imagined myself on the side of the South: “the Rebels.” That’s what everyone did. My dad didn’t say, “You’re a Southerner, boy” but I’m pretty sure he said “Damned Yankees” a few times. It was assumed and commonly understood: in Texas, we are still Rebels and that “The South Shall Rise Again.” My childhood was in the days of segregated schools, public transportation, water fountains and restroomS. It took a long time for me to figure out that Rebel or Southerner was just a euphemism for “white supremacist” or “racist”. We didn’t really dwell on the fact that the Civil War was all about slavery – no, we learned it was about those northern industrialist forcing their will on the agricultural southerners. It was about state’s rights. No, dude, it was all about slavery, about white privilege and white supremacy, about hate and fear – it still is. The fact is, you can’t move toward equity, toward equality, without someone having to surrender privilege. It’s really hard to admit that your legacy is wrong.

So what will our legacy be? We can’t really know, but we do have an opportunity to contribute to it. Most people don’t, not intentionally. Maybe we should. What would you like to leave your descendants to know about you—about your history? Let me suggest a project or two.

How many photos do you have? Some may be in a box or an album, but most are probably on a digital device that will probably be lost one day. Consider taking some time to look at them. Collect your favorites and spend a little money on creating a photo book. Make several copies and give them to your descendants. I don’t think this is an arrogant exercise in egotism. It’s a well intended gift. Think of it as putting a message in a bottle and tossing it into the sea.

Write an autobiography. What a deep and beneficial experience. All of your most meaningful memories will eventually come to the surface. You could burn it when finished and you would still grow as a result. But don’t burn it. Just create it with honesty and humility then let fate decide what shore it washes upon. I wish I had autobiographies of my ancestors.

You’ll leave a legacy whether it’s deliberate or not. Nothing lasts forever, but influence survives for a long, long time.