A Queen Without a Crown

Being born December 31 was good in theory, but in a household with a total of ten children, it was tough. I now share stories with my mother of how sad I was as a child because by the time my birthday arrived, there was no money to buy me a gift. But she would always sit me down and prepare the best cake I ever ate. I began to look forward to receiving a cake more than a gift on my birthday. I was even allowed to eat the chocolate icing from the spoon she used.

We have always been a very tight-knit family who respect and love our “Queen” (as my mother was called by most). My mother was born in 1946 in Mississippi, during a time when racism and hardships were a daily struggle for Black Americans. She married at the young age of 14 and had six kids before migrating to Chicago in 1970, where she gave birth to her seventh (and most gifted) child: me. Since coming into my knowing as a baby, I watched her make miracles happen that seemed impossible to accomplish. We were a family of “hand-me downs,” yet we always had just enough to make it until the next government paycheck.

She didn’t receive any education, but she made certain we did. She didn’t eat on some days we were low on food, but she made certain we did. She didn’t believe in seeing a physician for health-related issues, but she made certain we were seen. She didn’t believe that there was someone to love her as the loving mother that she was, but she made certain we understood the importance of loving one another and respecting others in the same loving manner we first learned through her loving us.