My Black is NOT Cracking.

I asked my blog contributor, John (Jay) Washington to write this week’s post so I could have some much-needed time off.  I scheduled myself off for a long weekend following a damn-near eighty-hour workweek the week prior.  I decided I would even treat myself to a long overdue massage as a Mother’s Day gift from me to me!  (Even though I can’t really say I’m about the Hallmark holidays, I took one for the team!) I never really made a big deal of Mother’s Day as a mother.  Of course, when I had a mom, it was a thing. (Despite the fact that she would often say something to the effect of, “Don’t wait for a holiday to bring me flowers, and don’t wait until I can’t smell them.”)  In other words, don’t wait until I’m dead to bring me flowers.  Bring me flowers because it’s Tuesday! I don’t think we need Hallmark telling us we need to appreciate mothers!  Mothers keep this thing going!  Mothers literally make the world go round.  Without us, civilization would cease to exist.  So, shout out to all the mothers. 

And shout out to all the women that made the decision to NOT become mothers.  The role isn’t for everyone.  I never really wanted to have children, but I won’t get into all that right now. The bottom line is that I had one, and I’m happy with that DECISION.  I love my daughter more than words can express and I cannot imagine my life without her or her children.  (Even the big expensive one.) While I’m certainly not in line for any Mother of the Year Awards, I did the best that I could after I made the DECISION to become a mom.  Notice that word I used twice in the last few statements?  DECISION!  I made the decision.  I also made the decision NOT to do it again, albeit there was a post-it note involved and a close call or two, but again, the CHOICE was mine. 

I’m sorry. I just could NOT resist speaking up about the outrage I feel based on the news that made headlines this past week.  Becoming a mother is a HUGE DEAL and a major decision, that should be made by a pregnant woman, and NO one else.  My body.  My choice.  I CHOSE to have child.  I CHOSE to become a mother.  The choice was mine and mine alone. That said, as difficult as it has been at times, (Circumstances, not my daughter.  She was a good kid except that one time! I kid!) the joy, by far, outweighs any struggles.  So, with that said, Jay’s post focuses on that joy. This guest post is about Black Mothers, but as always, there is something here for everyone. (I’m going to get back to you on the politics later! Trust and believe!)

A Black Mother’s Joy

by John Washington

As I sit down to honor Black mothers on Mother’s Day, I cannot escape the fact that Black mothers have historically had a tough time and get a bad rap. From patriarchal origins to displacement to dangerous locations throughout the globe, customarily not by choice, Black mothers have a unique relationship to their offspring and the world. As Leah Wright Rigueur writes in her article in The Atlantic, “The persistent joy of Black mothers characterized throughout American history as symbols of crisis, trauma, and grief, these women consistently reject those narratives through world-making of their own.”

As an example, her reaction to birthing her three children was her uncontrollable laughter. She describes it as “celebratory joy” in response to the reality that Black mothers face: a global health pandemic, a nationwide racial reckoning, and horrifying rates of Black maternal mortality. Now, I don’t know about the mothers reading this article and whether they responded to childbirth with laughter, but as a man, it is unconceivable how I could even endure the thought of childbirth, no less laugh. I know because I was there to witness the birth of my two children and their mother was not laughing and I nearly passed out!

Rigueur’s essay made me think about what joys my mother may have gotten out of it. Typically, Mother’s Day is a day we honor mother by thinking about all the wonderful things she did for us. How she sacrificed, toiled, soothed us, and made our lives comfortable. Remember the song “I’ll Always Love My Mama” by The Intruders? The beat of the music is spot on, makes you ‘wanna dance and shout out! It’s something most Black folks in America can relate to and enjoy. But the words tell a whole different story of Mama cleaning houses [WORK] to buy her child a new pair of shoes, no sleep [NO SELF-CARE], teaching little things like saying “hello,’ and, “thank you, please” all while scrubbing floors (‘MO WORK) on her bended knees [PAIN]. And “forget Pop” [SIC]! I think you get the drift.

All of this is rooted in the fact that Black mothers are mostly appreciated for what they can do for others. In the Netflix documentary In Our Mothers’ Gardens the Rev. Theresa S. Thames says, “We are not celebrated or validated until we do something for someone else.” I think this production thing had a start in slavery when the slave master forced the breeding of our women folk, oftentimes by the slave master himself, to make more slaves to work on the plantation. It continued with wet nursing their white babies. I never could understand that if we were considered as not human, like a dog, why the hell would you want your babies suckling on the mammary glands of a dog? Makes no sense, but a lot of this inhumanity directed and self-directed to us and others doesn’t make sense to me.

Let me move on to higher ground and reflect upon the joys my mother, Josephine “Jo” Grimes Washington, may have embraced as a Black mother. I’d ask her myself, but sadly to my chagrin, she passed in 2002. RIP. I never had the slightest thought to ask at any time prior to her death. I guess I was busy delighting in the joy she brought to me in my life. Now at the 20^th anniversary year of her passing this notion has a certain redemptive value for me – knowing indeed that there was much joy. It’s like I get it and treasure her more than ever just knowing that it made her incredibly happy.

Yes, to the joy that seldom gets recognized or discussed. I can see it in the expressions that Black mothers show their offspring particularly when I am with my niece and her two beautiful baby girls. It’s undeniable and brings joy to my own heart and warms my soul. I’m certain my mother if she were alive today would have relished in seeing it as well. She would find total joy!

My first thought was to just write from my imagination, but on second thought was that my imagination wouldn’t capture the essence of what I was looking for in Black motherhood. I then decided to ask a few of the closest Black mothers that I know. I started with my girlfriend and then my sister, niece, cousin, and a couple of friends. They ranged in age from their early thirties to late eighties. All were gracious in responding to my question to identify three things that brought them joy in being a mother. I then organized the answers in common groupings, and I present it as a framework to discuss what my mother might have told me if I asked her the same question.

First, I can envision that the physical act of giving birth is joyful in the sense that mothers create life akin to God miraculously creating us. A part of oneself becomes their “own self” in their own right. Thus, a bond between mother and child is created that can never be broken because the beings, mother, and child, were once one. There is no separation in spirit, just an extension of it in another vessel. How one expresses this joy ranges from elation as laughter to quiet wonderment that envelopes a mother after giving birth. I can’t offer any examples of witnessing this feeling on my mother’s part because I was too young to recall them. I only mention it because childbirth is a significant event where life begins for all of us. It gives genuine purpose to life and inspires mothers to be the best they can be for their children.

The second significant grouping is being able to provide a safe space to grow and learn. Mother Jo relished having a career as a teacher. She had a joy de vivre in seeing children grasp and understand concepts. She had an effective way of explaining things that children could easily understand and master. Moreover, she developed her skills daily at work and at home with me and my sister. Her career afforded her the opportunity to partner with my dad as an equal in providing a wholesome, safe, and nurturing environment. Fortunately for our family, my grandmother lived with us and became a surrogate mother after the first couple years of our births after her returning to the classroom. My mother’s summers off from school were occupied with fun and creative learning activities that she enjoyed teaching us. As a result, we both thrived in school. I’m certain Mother Jo would agree with my assessment that this aspect of motherhood brought her joy.

Lastly, her children deeply loved Mother Jo. This love brought a significant amount of joy to her life. To have someone love you and being able to accept it is a powerful thing. It’s unfortunate when we are not able to accept love because we may not feel worthy or deserving. We not only diminish ourselves but diminish relationships with others. They are nothing other than missed opportunities to receive blessings from others that are reaffirming and gives a sense of well-being and genuine purpose to life. When one is loved it means to me that your beliefs and your actions agree and resonate with the person that loves you. From what I observed, Jo Washington never faltered in that area for she believed in what she was doing was right. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I love you! On that note, I wish all my sisters a Joyous Mother’s Day!

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*Josephine Grimes Washington became a mother in 1947. We can only imagine the challenges she encountered over a span of 55 years during the period of 1947 to 2002 in a small, predominantly white town in southern New Jersey. She taught in a neighboring white school district for most of those years. I’m certain that her humanity was questioned and tested at every turn. Nevertheless, I believe that the few examples of her joy in being a mother is shared on many levels by billions of Black mothers. To think that Black mothers and their babies endure and thrive is a testament to our cultural heritage. The Akan people in the countries of present-day Ghana and Ivory Coast in West Africa, from where most African Americans originate, believe in self-reflection, connection, and joy!