I was called Ms. Sherrill the other day. It took my breath a way. I looked over my shoulder for my Grandmothers. I almost started crying.

It was an older man from the south who mistook me. Or perhaps he was being kind? We'd been introduced an hour earlier and discussed our mutual heritage in this state.  We were talking about old family names and history and our connection. On his way out of the house, after hugging everyone goodbye and walking through the door he tossed Ms. Sherrill over his shoulder. It was his intonation, accent, and timing, as much as the name that threw me, "Goodbye Mz. Sherrill!"

How many times have I heard that named called in greeting and goodbye? A million? Only thousands since the day I was born? My Grandmother and my Great Aunt were both Ms. Sherrill. Both have been dead a long time. I haven't heard that name called through the air, alive to the very moment of now, in fifteen years. Unexpected, it cut me deep as it rooted me through matriarchy into history. It was one of those moments we've read about where someone calls a person's true name and they suddenly know who they are. A shocking revelation while simultaneously mundane. Of course, I am Ms. Sherrill. Like my mother, my sisters, my aunts, my cousins.