There’s something warm and earthy and deeply comforting about an old-school black mother. If you grew up in the 50’s or 60s, chances are you had one. If not, you probably got to know one of these folk heroes. She may have been the devout church-lady who sang in the choir. She may have been the household queen who led with firmness, dignity and grace. Or maybe she was the big mama who didn’t allow sass from anyone. Her sharp eyes could silence you with just one glance.
Black mothers of that era were the utmost symbol of respect and harbingers of more kindness than the average person could express. They loved so fiercely every child in their presence felt protected. They stood for so much righteousness you always knew that, as long as they were around, everything was going to be okay.
In my life, I’ve been blessed with two of these champions. Both are best known by their selflessness and a down-home wisdom that seems to be every mother’s trademark.
One of them was a blend of spunk and tenacity. She was loving and energetic, sensitive, but with an unwavering, Buddha-like inner-strength. That was my late mother, Nellie. The other is the 96-year-old Geraldine, a peaceful, quick-witted matriarch with a laid-back persona and an endearing smile.
I think of them as my two mothers, one biological, the other, a force who appeared late in my adult years and hovered with the stealth of a hawk.
Geraldine and my mother met way back in the eighth grade — next door neighbors in Detroit’s infamous Brewster Projects. As besties, they double-dated, danced the jitterbug, and along with a few classmates, formed a social club affectionately called The Sunshine Band. After they married and had children, Geraldine and her family eventually moved to Los Angeles. But it didn’t put a damper on their decades-old friendship.
Like loyal sisters, Nellie talked to Geraldine every week and heard all about her Sunday dinner gatherings, her off-and-on-health issues and her daughter’s careers. Meanwhile, Nellie would give her an earful about her divorce, her second marriage, her three sons and one girl (me). On occasion, they’d take turns visiting one another in LA or Detroit.
In 2007, my beloved mother transitioned and I was the one taking trips out West. That’s when Geraldine eased her way deeper into my heart. She had the same helicopter parenting style of my mother, the same tendency to listen and console. Here I was, a full-fledged adult, and there she was rattling off her list of dos and don’ts. She became my confidante, my friend, a maternal figure I admired. She had stepped in where Nellie left off.
Now, the years have rolled on and Geraldine’s pace has slowed. She has more ailments. Her vision is failing, and she often relies on a walker. But whenever I’m around her, I feel that same wondrous spirit, that desire to guide, teach and demonstrate the power of faith.
I’m convinced that’s what makes motherhood so special. The need to be a role model. The satisfaction derived from watching precious lives blossom. The undying desire to love, to nurture and to leave an imprint on another soul. Of course, these qualities aren’t limited to Nellie and Geraldine and could never be defined by one culture, background or race. There’s the devoted Jewish Mother, adoring Polish Mother, doting British Mothers, dedicated Mothers all over Africa, Mothers in the suburbs, Mothers from India and beyond. I’d like to take this time to salute you all. Happy Mother’s Day
Leave a Reply