Cheryl Mattox Berry, a native of Memphis, Tennessee, earned her bachelor’s and master’s degrees in journalism from Northwestern University. She went on to work as a broadcast journalist, newspaper reporter and editor, and professor of journalism.
She has published three novels –– Memphis Blues, Capital Sins, and Mississippi Justice. A fourth novel, Memphis is Calling, is scheduled to be released soon.
A mother of two adult children, Cheryl and her husband Jim, a broadcast journalist, live in Miami. Learn more.
What past event do you often reflect upon, and how did that event change you?
In 1968, when I was in the ninth grade, a strike by sanitation workers roiled my city of Memphis. A protest in downtown had turned violent. Although classmates and I had heard about civil rights demonstrations in other cities, we had never witnessed anything like this in Memphis. Then on April 4, I watched as the TV anchorman announce the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I remember feeling the urge to run as fast as I could to put that awful moment behind me.
Seeing my beautiful city devolve into chaos frightened me. I realized that I had been living in a cocoon –– the result of segregation. My interaction with Whites only occurred when I went shopping downtown, where I never encountered any animosity, just a phony politeness by store clerks.
The sanitation workers’ strike and King’s death opened my eyes to the injustice that Black Memphians faced on a daily basis. It also fueled my desire to become a journalist to tell stories about people and what their lives are really like.
How does your work add to the quality of your life?
Writing gives me a chance to share my thoughts and feelings, while creating stories that educate, entertain, and empower. When I first conceive a story idea, I look to inject some of my experiences –– growing up in the Jim Crow era; life at a predominantly White university as a Black student; marriage to a fellow journalist; being the first Black reporter or the only Black reporter in newsrooms; experiencing infertility, then motherhood; being an empty nester. And when others share interesting stories, I ask myself, “Now what am I supposed to do with that?” The answer: Put it in a book. Snapshots of things I’ve seen also make their way into my novels. Once scrolling style websites, I saw a woman in an eclectic outfit that made me laugh. One of the characters in my novel, Mississippi Justice, wore colorful, weirdly put together clothes because of what I saw online.
Writing allows me to become different people and escape to a place, a time, or a world that I create.
Tell us a story you would like to share with the world.
In 1997, I accompanied my cousin’s church on a mission trip to Senegal and Gambia. I was excited to visit the place where my ancestors roamed, to see what Africa was really like –– not the stereotypical images of Africans in the Tarzan movies I hated. I had so many questions for my African brothers and sisters. I couldn’t imagine what it was like living in a country run by Black people, to be in the majority.
After a several days on African soil, reality sank in. I didn’t feel a connection to the land. Nor did I relate to African men and women. My experiences, outlook, and perceptions were not the same as Africans. Other than skin color, we had little in common. Our worlds were so different –– never enslaved vs. no longer enslaved but lacking equality.
The people were welcoming, but conversations revealed a difference in mentality. As a Black American, I had experiences that couldn’t be understood by an African. For example, the “Colored” sign above a water fountain that I drank from as a child made no sense to an African who questioned why we put up with such silliness.
Today I know younger Black Americans who frequently visit Ghana, Nigeria, and Senegal. They have found connections through social media platforms and business ventures that draw them to the continent. Maybe it’s time for me to go back and reassess my first visit.
Author photo: Courtesy of author
Side bar image: Pixabay/Edar
