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.