Skip to main content

What My Mom Taught Me About International Women's Day


...and I was so short, they’d always give me a crate to stand on so everyone in church could see me do my Easter speech.

I don’t remember when I learned that story about my mom. It’s like I’ve always known it.

I was the youngest kid in our family, and by the time I came along, she wasn’t doing speeches in church anymore. The last time I remembered her speaking was at the annual Women’s Day Celebration.

Standing on things, circa 1930
I knew she was preparing a speech for that day and I’d hear her reciting it from time to time, but teenagers don’t think long and hard about anything outside of themselves and their favorite rock group.

I honestly didn’t think much of it. After all, she’d direct the choir or sing solos on occasion, so it wasn’t a completely foreign concept to see her up in front of everyone.

For Women’s Day Sunday, all women in the congregation would be decked out in white, some wearing what I call Baptist Hats. The big extravagant kind, some tastefully bedecked with flowers, bows and other tchotchkes.

Because she always said her head was too big for hats, my mom didn't own a Baptist Hat, and didn't bother getting one -- even for this special occasion.

Then the time came to deliver her speech. She was sitting with the Women’s Day choir in the choir stand which was elevated, sprawling and set behind the wide pulpit. She exited the back row and made her way down the choir stand’s middle aisle to the microphone.

I thought how beautiful she looked in that simple white dress and noticed how pretty the color was because it contrasted with her tan skin. And her hair was perfect that day. I remember that.

Then she began speaking and I heard a strange nervousness in her voice. It was like a determined nervousness. Like she was bound and determined to reclaim her confidence from those many years ago when she stood on a crate telling the church her Easter story.

Which she did.

Her words connected to the congregation who responded with Aaaaa-MAN, Sister Dukes throughout her speech and when she finished.

Every now and again, I find myself in spaces and places where I’m storytelling in front of people. When my nerves threaten to overtake me, I remember my mom speaking that day with nervousness, determination and then confidence.

And I end up finding whatever it is that she found within herself to tell my story and be heard.

I guess that’s part of what International Women’s Day is about: remembering our narratives, telling our stories despite nervousness or even backlash, and being heard…and inspiring the generations that come after us to do the same.

Which is exactly what my mom did. Pretty cool, huh?

Comments

  1. That is so cool and so amazing. I know that your mom would be so proud of the amazing and fierce storyteller I am honored and blessed to call friend. xoxo

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

What 6 Christmas Songs Got Wrong

After Thanksgiving, a birthday party last week, another birthday party this week and Christmas coming up next week, I am officially overwhelmed. It'd take more time than I have to explain what yet needs to be done and if you're like me, you're probably overwhelmed and don't have the time nor inclination to read it all anyway. But even with an overflowing plate, I still love the Christmas season -- from setting up the Christmas tree that we got two weeks ago and decorated only yesterday, to lighting bayberry scented candles, to every Rankin & Bass Christmas Special, and the music. Oh, the music. Songs have a way of putting you in the Christmas spirit, warming your heart and next thing you know, you're hugging a stranger in the elevator. Okay, um...maybe that's just me. But alas, all songs are not created equal; and the following Christmas songs inspire and awaken anything but peace on earth and goodwill to men. 1. Christmas Shoes : This song makes my

Racism & Prejudice: Brothas from a Different Mother

Next week I’m attending  a seminar on defining racism. Should be interesting because: 1) I’ve been living in the skin I’m in for nearly 43 years and I’d like to hear about any advancements on the topic; and 2) back in college, some class I took defined racism as movement, advancement or otherwise being prevented and/or restricted based upon race .  Embedded in the definition was that racism took two parties – someone in power (the racist) and someone whose rights were being violated. So according to that definition, racism is an action , not an attitude . One is a disabling trespass while the other is prejudice . I tend to agree. It’s my belief that Martin Luther King and the thousands of civil rights fighters stood up against racism . They stood up against actions that prevented people from the pursuit of happiness – whether that meant voting, drinking from a common bubbler, or not ending up as Strange Fruit on a Poplar tree when all they wanted to do was get from P

The Moments That Are Given

Mom! It’s graffiti! It’s art... on a shoe ! I have to try it on. Please...can I? It was my 12 year old’s first foray into heels. A big moment in our little lives. Working full-time when she was an infant had stolen other big-little moments from my camera’s eye -- the first time she rolled over, the first time she sat up unassisted...the first firsts. Newly, gladly and willfully unemployed for the first time in 15 years, I took a picture. The picture wasn’t as much of an attempt to catch up on lost firsts, but rather a net to capture a butterfly’s moment of the moment; because if history skips a generation and the math holds out, there are more years behind me than ahead. My mom died at 63. Her mom died at 47. I’m 46. I’ve checked all over my person for a stamped expiration date, from the flabby inside parts of my arms, to the backs of my knees and other parts of my anatomy that shall remain nameless here.  There is no such date. Yet, there is a possibil