Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul Read online

  As I tried to adjust to life with Brian in the house, I realized he had a lot of adjusting to do as well. He needed a mother more than ever. Unfortunately, I was not equipped to give him what he needed at the time. Oh, I made sure all of his physical needs were taken care of, but emotionally something held me back. Perhaps it was my fear that he would be taken from me—that his mother would one day reclaim him. Or maybe it was my insecurity of knowing that I was not Brian’s mother—she was. Whatever it was, it kept me from giving him the motherly love that he needed.

  I’m not exactly sure when things changed, but somewhere along the line I became his mother and he became my son.

  One day, I stood in the hallway ironing.

  “Let me ask my mom,” I heard Brian tell the neighborhood boy standing at our door.

  “Is it okay if I go to Jamal’s house?” he asked me.

  I was floored. This was the first time I heard him refer to me as his mom. “Yeah, go ahead,” I replied. “And Brian . . .”

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “You’re the only person in this world that has ever called me Mom—I like it.”

  He smiled, and so did I.

  God has a way of gelling things together, without us ever realizing it. He knew that just because I couldn’t physically have children, it didn’t mean that I couldn’t be a mother. I am humbled that God handpicked me to nurture one of society’s most endangered species—an African American child.

  As it turns out, I won after all.

  T. Rhythm Knight

  Single-Mommy Love

  If you are a parent . . . what you do every day, what you say and how you act, will do more to shape the future of America than any other factor.

  Marian Wright Edelman

  Some time ago during one of my pitiful laments over the guilt I harbored for being a single parent,mymother shook me out of my self-centered sobs and said adamantly, “This is not about you. This is about that little boy who is growing more into a young man each day. You have to pray for him daily, like I do. He’ll be all right. He reminds me of Daddy. I know he’ll turn out to be a good, strong man.”

  It was then that I noticed three distinct likenesses my five-and-a-half-year-old son has to my deceased maternal grandfather: a fair-skinned, round face; a motor-mouth that runs from coast to coast; and an impenetrable dignity stemming far back into our ancestry. I hoped my mother was right and tried to put a rest to my fears.

  Then one day, we were at a typical tee-ball practice on the field of the local elementary school playground. Well, not quite typical . My son, Paul, the coach’s son, Ian, and another little boy were the only ones present and on time.

  While we waited for the other five players on the team, the boys played on the slide in the park adjacent to the field.

  As an outgoing only child, Paul relished playtime with peers. With twinkles in his dreamy brown eyes, he’d tear away from me in a split second to seek out friendly fun.

  His boundless energy and youthful innocence were one of my greatest joys in life.

  All seemed well until Ian came running full-speed out of the park across the field, yelling, “I don’t want to play with you. You’re black!”

  I know I didn’t just hear what I thought I heard!

  The coach and I had been engaged in conversation, and we both turned our heads to watch the scene unfold. Paul sprinted up behind Ian, shouting, “Hey, don’t call me a color!”

  No such luck. I just heard what I thought I heard.

  Paul was the only black child on the team, but I never noted a difference between him and the other children.

  “Ian, that’s not nice. Apologize to Paul,” his dad insisted.

  Ian threw down his ball cap and stomped his feet in the dirt. “But he is black! He has a black mom!”

  I could feel myself controlling my breathing; I noted all of the choice words dancing in my head; I was aware of the pain I instantly felt in my heart for both my son and myself. The only comment I made was, “What’s wrong with having a black mom, young man?”

  While the coach continued to chastise his son about the remark, I watched Paul’s reaction. I waited for him to cry into my arms, to pitch a fit or retaliate. I could feel all my years of hurts wrapped up in this moment waiting to see what he does with his first real experience. He stood before Ian, knock-kneed and all, without shedding a tear.

  He spoke calmly, but firmly, “I ama hu-man.” His mouth said only those words, but his body posture and his tone said, See me, respect me and know that I will be counted.

  Ian gave Paul the strangest look, maybe a mixture of shock and admiration that Paul didn’t whine or try to fight. Without any further prompting, Ian outstretched his hand to Paul and said, “I’m sorry.”

  We all could feel his remorse. He realized that he had said something hurtful to a real friend.

  Paul lovingly accepted his apology, then looked toward me for the first time since the whole episode had started. He glanced back at Ian expectantly with an unspoken, Don’t you have something to tell my mama?

  Ian walked over to me, head bowed. “I’m sorry, Ms. Smith.”

  I nodded okay.

  Paul marched over to the dugout to retrieve his glove. At first, I thought he was headed for the car to go home. But he jogged to outfield, ready to catch some pitches.

  Just that fast, the longest moment in Little League history was over.

  Later that evening, I explained to Paul what the “black” race and “white” race meant in simple terms, along with giving some examples of people he knew who were black, white, a combination or another race altogether.

  He nodded understanding, but remained quiet.

  “I’m proud of you,” I told him, kissing the top of his head. “You were very strong today.”

  “Thanks.” He smiled at me. “May I go play a game now?”

  “You certainly may.”

  Tears began streaming down my face. But they weren’t the sorrowful droplets of old. These were the moist, jubilant beads of faith, hope and love. For I know that God would not entrust the life of this child to me without empowering and equipping me with the will to succeed. I am no longer crying because I am a single mom, I’m crying because I get to be his mother, and today I was his student.

  Dayciaa C. Smith

  The Christmas Sparrows

  Recently, while driving in the countryside of northwestern New Jersey, I saw a wonderful and rare sight.

  There were at least a dozen bright red cardinals all perched in a large bush. A childhood memory came flooding back to me. “Christmas sparrows,” that was the name Granny gave to these beautiful, red-winged creatures.

  The very first time I met Granny, I was about nine years old. I was running home from school, excited to show my art “achievement” to my mother. It was a Halloween decoration, a bat attached to a picture with a pipe cleaner.

  As I ran down my street, I tripped and fell on the sidewalk. I tore my pants and had a large scrape on my knee.

  Of course, I let out a scream. I looked down at my work of art. My heart sank. The pipe cleaner had come off of the colored construction paper. I was extremely upset. But there in a minute was Granny. “Child, child, what on earth?” she exclaimed. I blurted out that I tripped and fell, and ruined my art work.

  “Well now, let’s see what we can do to make things better,” she said with an understanding smile. “What’s your name?”

  “Joey,” I replied as I began to calm down a bit. It was nice to hear a comforting voice.

  “Come inside, child. I’ll put some medicine on that scrape.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I said as I followed her into her apartment. Granny lived on the first floor of an old apartment in Perth Amboy, New Jersey, just about a block from our old apartment.

  There were just a couple of rooms, sparsely furnished, with a few knickknacks, but a lot of pictures. She gently but very quickly applied some dark-looking salve on my wound. “What’s that stuff?” I as
ked.

  “Well child, it’s an old family cure, handed down from my grandma. I know it smells kinda bad, but it will work real good.” Already I could feel the pain go away. “Whatcha got in your hand?” she asked. “Well, it was supposed to be a Halloween picture for my mom, but it got tore up when I fell,” I stated. “Let’s take a look to see what we can do to fix this beautiful picture.” Granny hunted around in a few drawers and produced some colored construction paper.

  “Land sakes, this paper is years old, Joey, but I think it’ll do the trick.” She made a few drawings of Halloween cats, a big pumpkin and an old witch. Then she let me cut them out. With a little glue and a few finishing touches on the bat—good as new. In fact, it really looked beautiful! I looked up at Granny and she had a big, approving grin. “Child, I have something special for you I think you’d like.” The dear lady brought out a plate full of gingerbread men cookies and a glass of milk. I swear, they were the best cookies I’ve ever tasted.

  All of a sudden, I heard my mother’s frantic voice calling my name. Gosh, I had forgotten about the time. I went running outside with Granny close behind. I started to explain, but my mom was still justifiably upset. “Your boy fell here on the sidewalk, but he’s okay now,” Granny explained. “I hope he didn’t put you out,”my mom replied.

  “Oh, not at all. He’s a nice boy. I did enjoy his company.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I said. “Well child, you can just call me Granny,” she said with a broad smile. “Okay, Granny!”

  Several weeks passed. A November chill was in the air.

  Granny was sweeping up some leaves on her sidewalk as I was coming home from school one gray afternoon.

  “Remember me?” I asked. “I sure do. Say how’s the scrape on your knee?” I was impressed that Granny would remember. “It was healed the next day! How about lettin’ me clean up those leaves for you?” I asked.

  “Well child, how much would you charge me?”

  “One gingerbread cookie,” I replied as we both began to laugh. “But first I gotta let my mom know,” as I started to run down the street. In a few minutes, I was back and in no time the leaves were swept and bagged. “Joey, you can have as many cookies as you want, but don’t fill up too much before your supper.”

  “No, ma’am,” I replied.

  Sitting there in her kitchen, it was the first time I really took a good look at Granny. She was up in years, but got around very well. She had beautiful dark eyes and a warm-hearted smile. She had a great sense of humor as I would come to know and a hearty laugh that was very contagious. We talked for a long time, getting to know one another. Granny had become a treasured friend. She possessed a great deal of wisdom. One day while talking she asked me what I thought about school. The truth is I did like school and did very well.

  “That’s so good to hear, child. You know I hardly went to school, but books have knowledge. And knowledge is the key that will unlock many doors in your life as you grow up.” I remember asking her how long it took her to get old.

  “A long time,” was her reply. “But it all happened in the blink of an eye,” she said with a hint of sadness in her voice.

  I found out that Granny had lived in New Orleans when she was my age. She had twelve brothers and sisters, but she was the only one left. Granny had four daughters, but they all lived down South. Her husband, Jefferson, had died many, many years ago. I asked her about her grandchildren. She told me there were eight of them, and many times she wished she could see them but was “not up to travelin’.”

  As Christmas approached, Granny received a letter stating that one of her daughters was coming for a visit with her two children for the holidays. What a beautiful sparkle in her eyes as each day went by. On Christmas Eve I stopped by her apartment with a small gift. I had my sister make Granny two red, green and white pot holders. What a fuss she made over them. You’d think I had given her a thousand dollars.

  Granny also had two wonderful presents for me, a whole tin of gingerbread men cookies and a red, hand-knit scarf. Her daughter was to arrive that evening. My dear friend was so excited. Suddenly she called out to me. “Joey, come quick!” I ran over to the window.

  “See there,” she said, pointing to her large holly bush. “The red birds. Some folks call them cardinals, but in truth they are Christmas sparrows.

  “You see, when the baby Jesus was born, the Christmas sparrows flew ’round and ’round the manger. The light of the moon and stars reflected off of them, giving a beautiful, warm glow over the Christ child. It’s a sign that you will have much joy and peace in the coming year.”

  With the passing of the holidays, it was decided that Granny would be moving away to stay with her daughter as she began to need help getting around. She gave me her address, and for several years we would send each other a short note or card. Then one day, her daughter wrote that my sweet Granny passed on in peace.

  Fifty years later I still cherish her memory, the gingerbread men cookies, the warm insights into life and the wonderful story of the Christmas sparrows. Granny was a very simple lady with the biggest heart of gold that a person could possess. As we journey through life, we are all gifted in having been touched in heart and soul by the angels that walk among us.

  Joe Gurneak

  Soul Food Rite of Passage

  “Mmm . . . Mommy, this is all so yummy!” my five-year-old daughter repeated at least three times while eating.

  “Thank you, sweetheart. I was just trying to make it like Bigmamma’s.”

  “You did a good job!” She then walked over to me. And with her sweet, soft voice she said, “Bigmamma would be proud,” and she clasped her little arms around my waist.

  I had done it. I had finally mastered that delectable pot roast like the one Bigmamma makes. You know, the kind that melts in your mouth and makes you want to sing while you eat. It had taken numerous attempts, but this time I had done it. Seasoned white potatoes, carrots and caramelized sweet onion accompanied the roast—along with golden brown, bubbling-over macaroni and cheese, candied yams and tender collard greens. I had spent most of the afternoon in a hot kitchen preparing this “perfect” soul food dinner, and I was now ready to clear away the dishes so that I could kick back and relax. But wait, something was missing.

  “Mommy,” my three-year-old said as he gazed up at me from his empty plate with those dark brown puppy-dog eyes.

  “Yes, honey?”

  “I wanted bread with it.”

  “Bread?” It took me a few seconds to figure out what he meant.

  “Oh . . . you mean cornbread?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, baby. Mommy didn’t make any cornbread. I would have to cook some,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said, and he got up and went to play. I thought that because he had already eaten his entire dinner he would soon forget about the cornbread. I continued to clean the kitchen when a few minutes later my son returned.

  “Mommy, I said I wanted cornbread!” He was serious.

  As I dragged my tired feet to the counter to get back into the cooking mode that I thought I had concluded, I couldn’t help but fast-forward into the future sixteen years. This is what mammas do, I thought. They gladly make their children’s favorite foods for them.

  “Mom, I’m coming home from school this weekend. Can you make me a roast, macaroni and cheese, candied yams, greens and cornbread?” Yeah . . . I could envision that conversation between me and my nineteen-year-old son. I just didn’t think this sort of thing would begin at age three.

  And I was tired and wanted to sit down. But there was this voice in my head.

  Child, make that boy some cornbread! It was the voice of Bigmamma. Besides, what’s a soul-food dinner without cornbread? Bigmamma always has bread. Oven-baked cornbread, hot-water cornbread, homemade rolls, it doesn’t matter, but there is always bread.

  As I began to stir the egg and pour in the milk, a smile formed on my face. I realized that for hund
reds of years African American mammas have taken great pleasure in preparing treasured meals for their children, and now it was my turn—a rite of passage of sorts. I was now the “mamma” whose cooking her children would brag about and crave for decades to come.

  Truth be told, I’m a grown woman and I still like to make food requests of Bigmamma—or at least I did, up until she died months ago. “What you want, baby?” she would ask. And although she was in her seventies, she would spend hours in the kitchen preparing a fantastic made-to-order, home-cooked, soul food extravaganza and drive twenty miles to bring it to us.

  Now it’s my turn. Bigmamma has passed on. And the next time I get a special food request—even if my feet are aching, I will count it a blessing.

  The sweet aroma of hot cornbread baking in the oven lured my three-year-old son right back to the table. It wasn’t even out of the oven before he was in his seat, ready to eat. The smile on his face made it all worthwhile. “Mmmm . . .” was the only syllable he uttered as he inhaled the bread and filled that tiny tummy of his.

  My daughter was right. Bigmamma would be proud. She wasn’t here to see it, but I had finally had my soul food rite of passage.

  Anita S. Lane

  Lesson for a New Life

  From the moment I found out that I was pregnant at the age of twenty, I placed myself on a self-imposed punishment. I kicked myself over and over for being so stupid and so careless. And to right the wrong, I made a valiant attempt to transform myself into a responsible adult in a matter of months.

  It ripped my young, foolish heart in half to learn that my boyfriend, who had just proposed to me weeks before learning we would be parents, decided not to join me in my blind leap into true adulthood. He was not interested in becoming a father again for the second time in two years. I gave him the opportunity to waive his parental rights, but guilt made him stay around for the baby’s sake, and he made me miserable. I ended up wishing he had taken the free pass I tried to offer him.