It lives in mothers.
Today I honor our mother.
She was born in North Carolina during a time when the weight of Jim Crow shaped daily life. She was born into a family whose roots reached back into slavery, into fields, into labor, into survival. The names before her endured bondage, Reconstruction, segregation, and migration. She carried all of that forward without ever announcing it. It lived in her work ethic. It lived in her faith. It lived in how she held her children together.
She lost her mother at five years old.
That kind of loss changes a child. But she was not left alone. She was raised by her grandfather and surrounded by aunts and uncles who became her shield. From them, she learned what family meant. Not sentiment. Structure. Responsibility. Showing up. Making do. Holding steady.
She would tell stories about those early years — stories that were both hard and strangely beautiful. Sitting on top of a dead hog her grandfather brought home so they could eat. Scooping cornmeal off the road when a truck spilled it so there would be cornbread that night. Being corrected at school for wearing “grown folk” shoes. Watching her grandfather suffer burns and learning quickly that love does not disappear when appearance changes.
She grew up in the Great Depression. She grew up in the South. She grew up Black.
And she grew up strong.
As a young wife and mother, she worked beside our father in a grill and fountain café. They built a life together in North Carolina before joining the wave of families who moved north in search of opportunity. She became part of the Great Migration story — not as a statistic, but as a mother determined to widen her children’s future.
New York became home.
She raised seven children there after our father passed unexpectedly. Widowhood did not break her. It sharpened her resolve. She worked. She cooked. She organized. She sold dinners out of the house. She hosted gatherings. She created community wherever she stood. The house was never just ours — it was a hub. People came for food, for advice, for tea readings, for comfort. She managed it all with calm hands and a steady voice.
There was always something on the stove.
Fried chicken. Fish. Pig’s feet. Collard greens. Potato salad. String beans. Cake. She made sure we were fed — physically and emotionally. Even when money was tight, there was laughter. Even when grief came, there was structure. Even when life shifted, there was stability.
When she returned to North Carolina later in life, she gardened. She made new friends. She stayed active in church. And when her health declined, she came back to New York so she could be surrounded by her children.
That was always her way.
Family first.
Always.
When she passed, people lined up to honor her. Churches came. Friends came. Community came. Her body lay in state because her life had touched so many people. That kind of respect is not given. It is earned.
Our mother was not famous.
She was foundational.
She stood at the center of our family history. She is the bridge between ancestors born enslaved and grandchildren born into a different world. Everything we are rests on what she carried.
Black history lives in women like her.
Women who endure.
Women who build.
Women who refuse to let their children fall.
Momma, we miss you.
Your faith still steadies us.
Your lessons still guide us.
And your love still holds this family together.
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