As the perceived
“sickly” child of a mother who was herself sheltered by an overly-protective
mother, I had a close but difficult relationship with my mom. Everyone who knew
us had some sense of this. I’m afraid I pushed back at her the way she spent
much of her life pushing back at my grandmother. My grandmother and my mother
lost a baby brother/uncle New Year’s 1943 and a husband/father July 4th,
1944. When my mother was 8, two empty seats haunted the family table, and two
holidays became reminders of sudden loss. I was often impatient with my mother’s
perpetual worries and, well, mothering. The past couple of years of her
decline, I’ve had time to think about it all.
What she managed was extraordinary. For all the protectiveness she experienced throughout her life, my mom cut her own path. My earliest memories of her—during her relatively brief stay-at-home period—were those of a woman who was not only maintaining a household but also always exploring her own creative interests. I believe during my older brother James’s early childhood she’d painted paintings of and created children’s books around the characters Franny Ant and her friend Danny. I can see her in our living room on Baylor Drive painting, doing needlepoint, and writing—diaries and stories and letters, sometimes in protest to politicians and television networks. She sang in local choirs, and she was involved in her churches and in local political organizing. When I turned 9, she began to work for Mutual Girl’s Club at the Concern Center across town and across the tracks from our home.
Despite (or
perhaps in part because of) being raised in the South with Black housekeepers,
Mom was not only pro-Civil Rights, but she integrated my childhood. I remember
spending afternoons with the girls and women down at the Concern Center’s
Mutual Girl’s Club. I think of Mom as always encouraging others to pursue their
interests, so it’s no surprise that I found myself doing a magic show for those
young women and, much to my embarrassment, choking on the big finale.
Some of the
best friends Mom ever had were the group of women she began to spend her time
with at Mutual, including her lifelong friend Kathy Hall. This train of
thought, though, leads me to think of the club art director, Geraldine Townsend.
She was a coach and confidant to my mom during that time after my parents’
divorce. I will forever associate that early 70s celebration of Soul and Black
Liberation with the women of Mutual, in particular her friend
Geraldine.
Ten-year-old
me teased my mother about her Stylistics, Diana Ross, and Aretha Franklin
records. I believe I referred to them as “old people music.” Of course, as I
grew older, a concept of soul rooted in that music became central to my own
sense of what mattered most—a vision that grappled with race and relationships
while hanging onto hope for a better world.
In many
ways, Mom’s life was hard, and our relationship took some hard knocks. But, far
beyond anything I can tally, I am thankful to her: for all her support and for
passing along such an open-ended vision of community. Mom’s several marriages
led to a larger and larger sense of family. She cherished the accomplishments
of those around her, and she made much of any writing I ever did. She even
framed emails and hung them on her walls. She always asked after everyone in
our family, and she was eager to hear about each of my friends, even if she’d
never met them. If you were my friend, Mom was a fan.
For all
these reasons and more, I want to thank Mom for being who she was—in all her
sometimes meddlesome, sometimes infuriating, but also brilliant, caring and
loving, glory. Mom was a beautiful person, in every sense, and the world’s a
better place for having her here with us. Some piece of that beauty, I feel
certain, is carried forward by every person in this room.
Statement made by Bartlesville's Westside Community Center.
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| Shavon Robles and Donnie Mooreland |
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| Juneteenth 2024, Westside Community Center, photo by Donnie Mooreland |
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