Over the years, I shared various ways in which my parents intentionally worked to develop me into a constructive person. Often, because my mother was the primary disciplinarian, she has gotten the short end of the stick because most of my stories about her involve being the enforcer of the law. Yet, Claudette was the drill sergeant who was determined to prepare her child for a war in which I was armed to wrestle with the ghostly demons who desired to manifest their supremacy in flesh and blood. Thus, making my childhood like basic training was on brand because, like my pops, she used her work as a teacher to impact our liberation struggle. Not only was my mother one of the few people who were qualified to develop curriculum for gifted/exceptional and special needs children, thanks to Jackson State University from which she earned three degrees, but she also spent her professional life fighting for and promoting the concept of mainstreaming, which is developing individualized curriculum that tests, diagnoses, and provides proper programs so that students identified with special needs can be returned to regular classrooms as swiftly and efficiently as possible, giving them the best opportunity to become independent and positively contributing citizens. This was my mother’s passion because, to quote her, “Far too many white teachers and administrators use special education as a way to counteract the Brown Decision, assigning as many black children as they can to languish in the bowels of servitude and helplessness.” (For the record, my mother perceived the “inclusion model” as the most ideal, but embraced “mainstreaming” as the most practical because, even with the “inclusion model,” certain students must have separate spaces as well.) Moreover, when designing or working within programs for gifted/exceptional children, my mother’s mission was to help students reach the heights of abstract analytical and creative thinking while providing a utilitarian and moral basis for producing practical applications from ideal computations. This is why every class that I taught required students to provide a sociopolitical solution or benefit from their analytical and creative work. Furthermore, since my mother wasn’t always sure if her son was a special needs or gifted student based on “whatever foolishness his ass did at the time,” she was probably driven to construct a curriculum that connected and complemented each category rather than separate them for the sake of her own child.
If it isn’t clear by now, my mother taught like she parented and parented like she taught because she saw absolutely no difference between her students and her only child. I can’t tell y’all how many times I saw my really cool shirt that I loved coming down the hall toward me on another student because she knew that child needed a shirt. To be clear, I wasn’t salty that she gave away my shirts but that she never gave away one of them ugly-ass Charlie Brown shirts she was so keen on me wearing. I was so effin’ sick of wearing those Peanuts monstrosities that I spent one summer chopping cotton just to earn enough of my own money to buy my own clothes. As pissed off as Claudette was that I decided, myself, to earn some money without consulting her, she remained a true teacher, allowing experience and my reaction to it to be the ultimate lesson. And, mane, that hot-ass Sun taught me a lesson about the value of a dollar and the gratitude one should have for parents who do whatever they need to do to put food on the table, a roof over my head, and ugly-ass shirts on my back. A summer in the hot-ass Delta Sun creates a different type of aesthetic appreciation when it comes to school clothes.
Yet, even with all of the above, the best thing my mother did was allow me to learn lessons that would shape my sensibilities in a completely different way than her sensibilities because she was more interested in raising a well-adjusted, critically thinking man than a clone who would be dependent upon others because he couldn’t think for himself or was too afraid to do what he wanted to do. Much to her religious chagrin, my mother is a primary reason that I live my life like the back of a Prince album cover because, more than wanting a child that merely mimicked her, she wanted to raise a man who could maintain his own life. (Both my parents are excellent models who prove that proper parenting isn’t raising one’s child forever; it is equipping the child to care for itself without the assistance of the parent.) To this point, there are three distinct times that my mother helped to mold me into an independent person.
One of the first times was when I was upset that my mother wouldn’t purchase me something because she said that we couldn’t afford it. So, at the age of nine or ten, I decided that I was going to walk around the house with my ass on my shoulders to express my displeasure with this decision—huffin’ and puffin’ like the big bad wolf looking to blow something down. Normally, Claudette would have simply smacked the shit outta me or issued the warning, “Playa, you can straighten up or get straightened up ‘cause you ain’t gon’ walk around dis house like that.” And, because I didn’t want none of that straightening, my ass would quickly fall off my shoulders. Yet, this time, she took a different approach. Clearly annoyed and tired of me, she had me sit with her at the kitchen table. She had cashed her check, placed the money beside the bills, and said, “This is all the money mama got. Once you pay the bills, if you got enough left over for what you want, we will go get it today.” To myself, I thought, “Finally, what took her so long to come to her senses? I know she been holdin’ out on me. I’mma just knock these bills out right quick so we can head on to da stow.” As I turned my full attention to the task at hand, I started out thinking that I was the Roadrunner and was gon’ run through those bills quicker than beer ran through Uncle Smiley; yet, I rapidly realized that I was Wile E. Coyote on the ultimate fool’s errand. Mane, that math got to mathing, that stack of cash got to gettin’ lower and lower as I placed the proper amount on bill after bill, and it seemed like the stack of bills was a mountain over the molehill of cash at my disposal. Finally, like Mighty Casey after the final strike or John Henry with a broken hammer, heart, and spirit, I bowed my head in defeat as I had no words for this new feeling of vividly flashing adulthood all over my face. This was grown folks’ Monopoly, and I had passed Go to be sent directly to the jail of parental responsibilities. Once mama realized that the lesson was learned, she scooped the cash and bills from the table and added, “Now, take yo’ ass outside and play!” But, play was the last thing on my mind. As I exited the house going who knows where, my mind was weighted with the image of the stack of bills towering over the cash like a magnolia tree over a sad shrub, realizing that mama gots to be a wizard ‘cause only magic is gon’ make them ends meet. That was the day that I learned the meaning of myopia and the importance of gathering all of the facts before developing feelings about an issue.
Next, I’ve discussed using my high school lunch money to purchase books and records. But, I’ll add that my mother thought that was the most foolish thing she’d seen anyone do. Actually, she thought it was only half foolish since she didn’t have an issue with the books. But, as she stated, “What fool gon’ give away good food money for some damn records?” After taking a minute to think about it, she added, “Sometimes, boy, I just don’t understand how you could be so stupid?!?!” For the longest, based on her religious leaning, I wondered if she was using “stupid” as a synonym for “sinner” because, when I’d come home with a sack full of records, she’d often add, “Look at you—just purchasing yo’ way into hell with yo’ lunch money.” To myself, I’d think, “Well, I’mma have a helluva good time gettin’ there with all of these new jams,” but I wasn’t dumb enough to say that aloud. As such, it seems that I was just a sinner and not stupid at all. After a few months of this, Claudette thought that she’d sit me down and reason with me. The look of exasperation was emanating from her face like radiation from a failed power plant. She took a moment to collect herself and began, “Baby, don’t you get hungry at the end of the day?” “No ma’am,” I quickly replied but with a soft enough tone to be clear that I wasn’t being disrespectfully defiant. She continued, “Well, what about ball practice? I know you get hungry then.” “No ma’am,” I continued. “I like ball so much that I don’t even think about eating.” She also had an issue with me being that in love with ball playing, but she was saving that battle for another time. So, she stared at me for what seemed the longest time, seeking a crack in my resolve, but my concrete countenance caused her to concede, “Well, it’s your money, and if you want to make someone else’s pockets fat while your belly goes empty, that’s your business.” And, that was that. For the next four years, she never said another word to me about it. Of course, Grandma Rosalie had a lot to say about it, especially when I arrived home after school and ball practice to eat all of the pinto beans and cornbread. She was almost imploring my mother, “Look at that boy! That boy is hungry! How you gon’ just let that boy be hungry all day?!? That ain’t right!” Finally, my mother had all that she could take and, in the most calm but stern voice, said, “Well, mother, he needs to go in his room and see what Sign “O” the Times tastes like because that’s what he spent his lunch money on.” Returning to mama leaving me at the table, I had a new feeling for which I didn’t have a name. I knew it was a good feeling, but I didn’t know what it was. But, I liked it…a lot…because I realized that, if I was willing to suffer the consequences, I could accomplish anything I wanted. From that moment, fear stopped playing a role in my decisions. I knew what it was like to sacrifice for something I loved, to be hungry as a result, and I knew that I could survive it because I was more beholden to feeding my mental and spiritual hunger than my physical hunger. Years later, I realized that she could have just taken the money and purchased a lunch card for me. Yet, that would have defeated the purpose of giving me the money. That’s when I got the word to match the feeling I had all those years ago—liberated. I heard my mother telling someone about me spending my lunch money on books and records, and she said, “I was trying to teach this boy financial responsibility, but he learned an entirely different lesson.” She paused and then continued, “And, I didn’t know if I hated or admired what he was learning.” Then, she turned to me and said, “I realized that you couldn’t be broken, and I wasn’t interested in trying to break you.” Those words became a blanket of love that has never left me and has protected me every day of my life. I’m sure that I’ve made a lot of bad decisions because I wasn’t afraid of the consequences and never desired or needed much money. But, I’ve never complained about any decisions that I’ve made because they were usually well-researched and based on what made me happy as opposed to what made me safe and accepted by others.
Finally, during spring break, our church would have its annual revival. While I hated church as a child, nothing was worse than revival. Seven days of church—was God trying to punish me with hell before I got there? Unfortunately for my mother and grandmother, my high school baseball team opened the season each year during spring break with a round-robin tournament that lasted the entire week. At this point, I’m thinking that maybe God’s not so bad at all. Not only does this get me outta revival, I get to play baseball all week. There’s hope that God might just be as good and gracious as old people say He is. However, when my grandmother got the news, “What do you mean dat da boy is gon’ be chasing some ball instead of praising da Lawd!?!,” that’s when the Bible hit the fan, which was good since, usually, the Bible just hit me, and I never understood how that was gon’ make me love da Lawd more. (But, I digress.) This was also the first time I learned what perplexed means because Claudette was certainly that. And, grandma was a pit bull with bone, gnawing and gnawing and gnawing, working my mother’s final nerve. At one point, I was worried that ole Rosalie was going to be the tidal wave to break Claudette’s damn of resolution. Yet, just as it seemed to be a crack in Claudette’s concrete, she took a deep breath and said, “Mama, I don’t care nothing ‘bout dat boy being out there chasing some ball either. But, the boy done made a commitment. I let the boy make the commitment. And, now, I can’t have the boy make a commitment to a whole team of people and then just break it because it’s convenient to me.” There you go mama; play that ace of spades. But, out of nowhere, Rosalie played the Joker. “What commitment is more important than our commitment to Gawd?!?” Damn, damn, damn, grandma done played the Gawd card. Ain’t no card bigger than that. Oh well, I guess it’s seven days of religious hell fo’ me. But, just then, like the sunshine slowly sliding through the cracks of the clouds, Mama said, “So, it’s okay for the boy to keep his word to a God that he cannot see while breaking his word to people that he sees daily?” Bam!—The Big Joker! Like The Gap Band, mama dropped the bomb on grandma by combining two of grandma’s favorite scriptures. Mama for da win—game, set, and match! Grandma sucked her teeth and rose from the table. Inside, I was having a championship celebration. But, again, I’m not stupid so I just sat there waiting to be dismissed. Claudette was not happy with her son missing revival, but mama understood that religion without integrity was simply dogma. So, before she released me, she said, “Yo’ ass bet not be warming the pine, and you bet not be out there looking sorry.” Then she left me there, with this new thing in my life—integrity. And, I realized that it is heavy and necessary to be anything of substance.
Of course, there are many more lessons that I learned from my mother. All of which have sustained me as an adult. Yet, these three are the trinity of character that has helped me when all I had to help me was me. Thanks, mama.