Black History Month: Ed Rominger B. October 17, 1870 – D. January 25, 1945 - Ms. Otelia's Blog

Black history is not only about public leaders and national headlines.

It is also about Black men who held families together in quiet, steady ways during some of the hardest periods in American history.

Today, I honor Ed Rominger.

Born in 1870, just five years after the end of the Civil War, Ed entered the world during Reconstruction — a fragile and uncertain moment when formerly enslaved families were trying to define freedom for themselves. His parents had been enslaved. He belonged to the first generation born into legal freedom, but freedom did not mean safety, equality, or economic security.

Like many Black men of his generation, Ed became a farmer in North Carolina. Farming for Black families in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries was not simply work. It was survival. It was land ties. It was identity. It was resistance in a society structured to keep Black families economically limited.

He could not read or write, but literacy was never the measure of his leadership. He built stability through labor. He maintained a household. He kept family connected along rural roads where extended kin were often the only safety net available.

After becoming widowed, he did not retreat from responsibility. He stepped deeper into it.

When his stepdaughter died, leaving two small children behind, Ed became their primary caregiver. In the middle of the Great Depression — under Jim Crow laws that restricted opportunity at every turn — he kept those children under his roof. He provided food, discipline, and structure. He relied on extended family. He did what Black families have historically done when formal systems offered little protection: he made family the system.

Census records show his household living on a farm, without modern comforts, categorized simply as “Negro.” In one later census, he was even misclassified as white — a reminder of how imperfect and inconsistent official records were when documenting Black lives. Yet the paper trail confirms one thing very clearly: he remained head of household. He remained present.

That presence mattered.

Ed represents a generation of Black men whose leadership rarely extended beyond their communities — farmers, laborers, guardians, grandfathers. They absorbed loss. They adapted. They endured segregation and economic hardship. They raised children who would later become part of the Great Migration, seeking expanded opportunity in northern cities.

His life formed a bridge between slavery and the modern era. Because he stepped forward, the children in his care survived, grew, migrated, and built new branches of the family tree.

That is Black history.

It is the history of Black men who labored without recognition, who raised children not biologically their own, who anchored families through Reconstruction, Jim Crow, and the Depression.

Ed Rominger’s life reminds us that survival itself was an achievement — and continuity across generations did not happen by accident.

It happened because he chose responsibility.

And because he stood firm, this family still stands.

Happy Birthday to Me — Grateful, Graceful, Growing, and Blessed

Grateful for another year.

Grateful for the woman I am today.

I earned this growth.
I built this strength from lessons I did not ask for.
I protect my peace.
I am building discipline that shows.

I am not the same woman I was a year ago.

I move with intention.
I choose with clarity.
I guard my energy without apology.

This year is about health.
Alignment.
Expansion.

No shrinking.
No second-guessing.
No settling.

I rise.
I grow.
I move forward.

Happy Birthday to me.

Black History Month: Ella Louise (née Johnson) Thompson B. May 6, 1928 – D. June 13, 2003 - Ms. Otelia's Blog

 

Black history does not only live in movements, marches, and monuments.

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.

She sang in church. She served faithfully. She eventually became Church Mother — and that title fit her long before it was official. She nurtured people. She guided people. She prayed over people. Her faith was not loud, but it was firm. Psalm 121 brought her comfort. The faith of a mustard seed carried her through.

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.

Black History Month: Ronnie Thompson B. August 11, 1964 – D. August 13, 1993 - Ms. Otelia's Blog

 As part of Black History Month, I am honoring not only our ancestors, but our siblings — the ones who shaped our homes, our laughter, and our memories.

Today I am sharing the story of my brother, Ronnie.

Ronnie was one of the youngest in our family, raised in a house full of noise, food, faith, and siblings who were never far apart. Family was everything to him. We grew up gathered around the kitchen table — which was also our family room — eating, talking, and watching television together.

Ronnie had a gift for making people laugh.

In the mornings, Momma would make breakfast — grits, eggs, toast, and whatever protein she had ready. Ronnie would pile his grits and eggs onto a slice of toast and turn it into what we thought was the strangest sandwich ever created. Then he would eat it in the most exaggerated way possible, just to get a reaction. The more ridiculous he acted, the harder we laughed.

Momma would come in pretending to be upset and warn that the next person who laughed would get a beating. We would all sit stiff and silent, trying not to move. But Ronnie would always find a way — a look, a bite, a small movement — and the whole table would erupt again.

That was Ronnie. He knew how to lift a room.

As he grew older, he worked different jobs, but the one most remembered by our family was his time delivering baked goods. He would come home with bags filled with cakes, bread, muffins, and cupcakes. And he did not keep them to himself. He shared with friends, neighbors, and anyone nearby. He took pride in being able to contribute and help Momma. Generosity came naturally to him.

Ronnie had one daughter who meant the world to him. Family anchored him in every season of his life. In his later years, he stayed close to home, moving between the houses of our mother and our sister. Being near family brought him comfort.

He had a habit of pressing a dollar or two into your hand and saying, “a little something for your pocket.” It was never about the amount. It was about the gesture. That small act told you that he was thinking about you.

Ronnie’s life was not long, but it was real. It was full of laughter, loyalty, and heart.

Black history is not only written in textbooks. It is written in kitchen tables, in shared meals, in jokes that make a whole room collapse into laughter. It lives in brothers who show up quietly, who give what they can, and who love their family out loud.

Ronnie is still remembered.
He is still talked about.
And his laughter still echoes in this family.

Black History Month: Vanessa “Van” Thompson McNeil September 29, 1958 – May 22, 1994 - Ms. Otelia's Blog

 Black history is not only found in textbooks. It lives in our homes, our churches, our kitchens, and in the
women who held families together without ever asking for recognition.

Today I honor my sister, Vanessa — our Van.

Van had a presence you felt immediately. She was sharp, funny, and quick on her feet. If there was a card game happening, she was in it — and more often than not, she was winning. But what truly set her apart was her humor. She could make you laugh without even trying. Her comebacks were effortless. Being around her meant joy.

Family was everything to her. She loved gathering the kids, taking them to the park, sitting outside while they played, and talking about life while keeping a watchful eye. Nothing extravagant. Just time together. Just love in motion.

She stayed connected to her faith and our church community, walking alongside our mother and siblings. She carried loyalty, warmth, and a protective spirit for those she loved.

Her daughter once shared:

“My mother had the kind of sense of humor that stayed with you. She could make anyone laugh, no matter what was going on. Being funny came naturally to her. She was a comedienne without even trying, and I guess that is where I get it from. Some of my favorite memories are simply us laughing together. I miss her every day.”

That is the kind of impact she had. Laughter. Light. Presence.

Her time here was shorter than we wished, but her imprint is lasting. The laughter she sparked, the memories she helped create, and the love she poured into her family continue through the generations that followed.

That is Black history, too.

Van, you are still remembered.
You are still loved.
And you are still part of us.

Black History Month: Elaine “Cookie” Thompson February 14, 1957 – October 15, 1998 - Ms. Otelia's Blog

As part of Black History Month, I am honoring and sharing the story of family members. Today, I share the story of my sister, Elaine “Cookie” Thompson.

Black history is not only made by names found in textbooks. It is made by the women in our homes, in our churches, and in our neighborhoods — the ones who held families together and left their mark quietly, but permanently.

Elaine, affectionately known as "Cookie," was born on February 14, 1957. From the beginning, she carried warmth. There was something steady about her — something grounding. She was not loud, not flashy, not attention-seeking. She had a calm presence that made you feel safe just being near her.

We grew up in a household built on faith, discipline, and strong family ties. Like many Black families who migrated north, our upbringing blended Southern roots with Brooklyn life. Church was central. Family was central. Showing up for one another was not optional.

Elaine had a gentle strength. She did not have to raise her voice to be heard. She did not have to demand space to matter. Her way was quiet but firm. When she loved you, you knew it. When she stood by you, she stood solid.

She carried herself with dignity. She believed in family. She believed in showing up. She believed in doing what needed to be done without seeking applause.

She passed on October 15, 1998. Her life was not long, but it was meaningful. The impact of a life is not measured in years alone. It is measured in presence. In influence. In memory.

And she is still present.

Black History Month reminds us that our history lives in our bloodline. In our sisters. In our mothers. In the everyday women who may never make headlines but have shaped generations anyway.

Elaine was one of those women.

Happy Heavenly Birthday, Cookie. You are still loved. You are still remembered.