Got Me Some Angels Watching Over Me

I clearly remember the first day I tied my shoes without any help. My mom had struggled for weeks with lessons of looping and pulling. Each day I would try, become frustrated, and she would come to my aid. Then one day she decided I would not leave the house until I got it right. I walked around the house all day with no shoes on. Then I heard my aunt toot her horn, which signaled a ride to the grocery store, Monmouth Shopping Center or Atlantic Superama.

I threw on my Buster Brown brogans and raced for the door, laces flying. I even got outside, but Dobby got ahead of me, blocking the car door. Also anxious to go, she waited for me to do what she knew I could. After a few fumbled attempts I got it right and on her face I saw a look of relief, pride and satisfaction. To me, it was a look of love. I imagine she wore that look the first time I used the potty and took my first steps; each time I performed a function that signaled independence.

On March 17, 2009 my dear mother slipped into eternity, leaving me to navigate life without the benefit of her physical presence. On this, the second Mother’s Day since her departure, I pause to reflect on what an amazing gift she gave me. Though she gave me life, that selfless act was not her greatest gift. Any female with functional plumbing can produce a baby. They do it every day and some walk away from the bundle, like any load of soiled laundry, which is the kindest, most loving act some can perform.

The truly great mothers (like mine) stick around long enough to leave their children with something that comforts them and enriches their lives, even when Mother is gone. Mine gave me the gift of friendship and taught me to be a friend to others by recognizing, treasuring and caring for the special people we encounter on our journey. She had a heart as big as all outdoors and gave of herself without hesitation, but there were so many others.

I grew up surrounded by mothers… a village of them. Because women dominated my family, Mother’s Day was a very festive and busy Sunday filled with calls and visits. As far back as I can recall, the preceding days were spent in dime stores, purchasing thoughtful trinkets that were always received with exaggerated joy and sincere appreciation. I’m sure they giggled amongst themselves at the dishcloths and useless bric-a-brac, but they made me feel like I had given diamonds. Over the years, the number of calls, visits and trinkets purchased has dwindled as so many special mothers have transitioned. I pause to celebrate a few who continue to nurture and guide me.

I called my great-aunt, Zora Auntie (ant ti’). Most of my family did, even her sisters. She was a pioneer… the first in our family to join the Great Migration from the South. Her residence at 26 Grant Court in Long Branch, NJ was a way station; a portal through which so many passed on their journey to increased opportunity and prosperity. I was only three years old when she passed. My most vivid memories are of visits to her Plainfield apartment when she was dying from cancer. Even in her illness, she was kind, gracious, appreciative, and there was always something good to eat in her house. We had so little time together, but her impact on my family is so great, that I am affected. I cherish her recipes for Banana Pudding and Pineapple Upside-down Cake, but wish I could have learned to make her famous dinner rolls.

On Sixth Avenue in Long Branch, there was a pink bungalow where Mattie Watkins provided daycare for a generation of children whose parents worked outside of the home. Her care extended far beyond professional boundaries and the traditional workday. Though not related, we called her Aunt Mattie. Our front doors faced each other and her home was an extension of my own. I could sit in her kitchen and expect to be fed, march up her stairs and fall asleep and get a good spanking, just like I could across the street. Though I was raised a Baptist, I was allowed to accompany Aunt Mattie and her family to the Refreshing Springs Holy Temple Church Of God In Christ, where I learned to cut a step and worship God in the beauty of holiness.

Aunt Frankie was my great- aunt from New York. She visited us on summer holidays and always arrived with gifts. She sent the first birthday card I ever received by mail and never failed to remember the day. When we visited her apartment on Long Island, she would put out a sumptuous spread replete with entrees and appetizers. I relished her chopped chicken liver pate and learned to prepare the tuna egg salad she served on thin water crackers. She was elegant and regal, belying the fact that she was merely a domestic. She taught me to walk proudly despite my circumstance, always exercise discretion, and be gracious.

Above the garage behind the house where I grew up, lived my sweet and sensitive, great-aunt, Sarah. Her contribution to my character is unquestionable. Entrusting her nine-month old son to my grandmother’s care, she left home, seeking a fortune she willingly shared with any family member in need. Her generosity is as legendary as her ability to save and stretch a dollar. She loved to dance and on many a Saturday night she would fire up the record player and cut a step. She cultivated my sweet tooth with Sarah Lee pound cake, vanilla ice cream and a wide assortment of candies. Because of her, I’m a thrifty shopper, but she also showed me how to love without condition, cry unashamedly, dance like no one is watching and marinate chicken with Lawry’s before frying.

Fearless is the word I use most when describing my great-aunt, Letha. She didn’t go searching for a fight, but if one came knocking, she met the challenge with enthusiasm. In her own words she was “a bitch” in Mount Vernon, the tiny Georgia town she left after slapping a white woman when lynching was common practice.

“Letha was terrible!” my grandmother recalls, disdainfully shaking her head. “We were always scared they were coming to get her.”

Women and men alike gave wide berth, as she was adept with a shotgun and was known to carry a razor. She was our protector and matriarch, a natural leader. Her announcements that we were going to do something always met with compliance. Because of her I stand for my beliefs with conviction, will tell your head a mess when provoked and bake a caramel cake that will rot your teeth.

“We had our real mommas and our play mommas…”

Jackie Washington in Jackie’s Back, 1999

Roz Thompson Andrews was my play momma. She had a wonderful habit of calling everyone, “Baby” and addressing me as “Son.” She knew me from the cradle but, actively stepped into my life when I begin working on the psychiatric ward where she dispensed medication. Despite being a “big girl,” she moved about with a swagger that said, “I am remarkable!” She taught me to love myself with all my perceived deficiencies and not to apologize for or live in shame of who I am. For the sanctimonious and narrow of mind she offered a hearty, “F*#K ‘EM," with a beatific smile that lit dark corners and warmed hardened hearts. Because of her I know few strangers, reserve no judgment and bake a great quick ziti. For that I am thankful.

I am blessed that so many mothers walked through my life and blessed my journey before moving on. The list is endless. At certain times I sense their presence, just as I do my own mother, looking down with hope as I tie my shoes.

Katie Abel	Leslie Accoo	Doretha Adams
Elizabeth Adams	Savannah Adam-Collins	Elaine Alston
Frances Alston	Mary Anderson	Dorothy Bartee Richardson
Juanita Bennett Mills	Rebecca Blanton	Rebecca Bolds
Rebecca Bottoms	Dorothy Brabham	Judy Brabham
Joan Bradley	Marguerite Buffaloe	Gladys Buntin
Adrienne Burke	Rebecca Bynum	Theresa Byrd
Mary Champs	Roberta Chapman	Ruth Chatman
Susie Chatman	Bernice Cheek	Violet Childres
Willie Mae Clark	Lucille Clayton	Stephanie Corbett
Brenda Covin	Ella Covin Betts	Jackie Covin
Theresa Covington	Pecoloa Coward	Lucille Daniels
Barbara Day	Barbara Ann Dickerson	Lillian Dunn
Betty Ann Edwards	Idele Edwards	Anabel Elmore
Mary Farrow	Ella “Mae” Fisher	Josephine Foster
Dorothy Gaskin	Clara Gibson	Katherine Greenwood
Ernestina Gugliotta	Rominta Hankins	Pam Harper
Adelle Harrell	Coretha Harris	Willie Bea Harris
Janie Ruth Haynes	Marian Henson	Hazeltine Holland
Delores Holmes	Mary Horton	Margaret Houston-Bey
Ruby Bey	Katie Hunter	Roberta Hurst
Clara Isaac	Jeanette James	Frances Jones
Georgia Jones	Roxie Jones	Gladys Jowers
Carrie Bell Kinsey	Lelia Lawrence	Adelaide Lewis
Joanne Lewis	Nancy Lewis	Margaret McCain
Alberta McClendon	Sarah McGee	Vernice McGee
Thelma McRae	Sally Mendoza	Gertrude Middleton
Dorothy “Bootsie” Mooney	Marie Gardner Mooney	Mary Jo Morgan
Christine Morris	Sarah Morris	Dorothy Murray
Loretta Newman	Susie Newson	Barbara Penha
Fannie Puryear	Betty Janie Randell	Pauline Rawls
Mildred Ray	Edith Reed	Easter Reeves
Jessie Reeves	Joan Reeves	Ozella Richardson
Joan Ann Robinson	Sallie Mae Robinson	Sandra “Tish” Robinson
Zellene Robinson	Joyce Sartor	Alice Schlenger
Donna Shaw	Flossie Smiley	Elsie Smith
Louise Snell	Rudeen Snell	Alice Staten
Queenie Staten	Blanche Stephens	Barbara Stokes
Martha Taylor	Minnie Thomas	Pauline Thomas
Georgia Thorne	Mary Alma Tigner	Connie Walker
Victoria Walker	Agnes Wall	Julia Wheeler
Alma White	Ernestine Whitehead	Karen Williams