Good Parents; Our Greatest Gift

 In preparing a lesson for my class to talk about poverty, I could not help but think of my Mother raising five children by herself and imagining the many, many sleepless nights she must have had trying to figure out how to keep us together and make ends meet.

Of course we were poor. She was a single woman with five children. Crazily however, people in the neighborhood used to say, "those Higginbothams got money!" How could we possibly have money? We were one of very few single parent families in the neighborhood. It was the 60s and 70s and yes, many Black families were still intact. Don't believe the hype! Against all odds to destroy our family structure, many were holding it down, poor and otherwise.

Despite a great start, my father gave up really early. He and my Mom had worked so hard that by the time I started kindergarten, we were the third Black family to move into an all white neighborhood, which is a story in itself. Let's just say, our white neighbors were not so welcoming. My Mom told us their stories of putting cherry bombs in our   mailbox, throwing for sale signs in our yard, of course, their children were forbidden to play with us and as more Black families moved in, municipal services like school bus transportation, just stopped. We were five so we played with one another.

Thanks to my father, and my Mother who also worked, we were living the dream, "moving on up!", so to speak. My parents were in their 20s. Once however, my father decided not to come home anymore, the court ordered $25 per week child support for FIVE kids! Laughable! He never paid. He lived and died in arrears...

My Mom raised us singlehandedly as did many other Black Women. Therefore, hashtag, I AM NOT A FEMINIST! Black Women were "roaring", if you will, burning their bras, bringing home the bacon and frying it up in the pan long before it became fashionable, courageous or some catchy soundbite for white women to  wear as a badge of honor symbolizing having found herself or announcing to the world her newfound freedom demanding to be seen, validated and heard.

Not necessarily by choice and certainly not to make a political statement, somehow single Black Mothers found the strength to protect and make sure that her children never went without. I know nothing of being hungry, cold, wearing tattered or shabby clothing, bearing the responsibility of raising my younger siblings or going without the necessities of life. We had as much in terms of material things, and maybe more love, as did most other children in our neighborhood.

It was a different time. Kids were not hung up on overpriced designer labels. Some kids got teased yes, but no one got killed for a pair of sneakers.

Designer labels hit the scene somewhere during my high school years. Mommy bought us knock offs or moderately priced slightly "irregular" Gloria  Vanderbilt or Calvin Klein jeans or Chuck Connor Allstar sneakers. Remember that? LOL! There were whole stores specifically selling "irregulars"!

Despite the odds, my Mom sacrificed, likely her life with stress and worry dying of cancer at the tender age of 45, so that we could live a decent life. My Mother was not unique. Many a poor Black child never knew or felt poor thanks to many a Black Mom. Since slavery, the Black Mother  has been the epitome of the "tiger" or  protective Mom, born likely not by choice but from necessity,  probably having  to do with bearing the pain of her husband being sold away from her and having her suckling babies literally snatched from her breast and also sold on an auction block. Let us never forget...

The Black Woman knows pain, thus giving birth to the facade of  Strong Black Woman. Is she real? Are all Black Women strong or us it an ill-gotten perception? How does she show up in the world when she is not strong? Is her strength an asset, a burden or is it the mask she wears to cover her [our] pain? Sistah love is real and imperative to feed our soul, so Black Women, we MUST Gather...

Although outwardly strong, our Mothers were not super women, they were tired women and we must always honor, revere and protect them where we can. I have always said, if I must be poor, I choose being Black and poor. So many times we manage to wear "poor" or mask it in pride so well, such that even we forget.

Many a Black Mother shielded us to never have poor mindsets, despite our financial reality. I remember my Mom saying we were "poor kids with rich ideas". I recall her ever so clearly saying that to me when I told her I was going to study abroad in Spain. We had never been on an airplane before. I was 21. She was 39ish. She died never having flown. Never did she get to meet the jetsetting spirit she unintentionally unleashed in her daughter, who would travel the world,  during that long reluctant drive to JFK Airport wherein she prayed all the way that I would not dare get on that big ole' airplane to parts unfamiliar, beyond her reach and protection of her wing. She really did pray that I would come to my senses and drive back home with her but still, she let me fly. She was proud. She loved bragging rights about her kids. Me living in Spain, was one of those rights for sure! Seemingly she was oblivious, never fully realizing or  understanding that it was she who planted those "rich kid" seeds in our minds. My greatest regret is not being able to take care of and spoil her in return. I did little things before she died, but I wanted to do so much more.

I'll Always Love My Mama! STILL, she is truly my favorite Girl!!!

Pass this blog post on and share your stories of love about your Black Mother or Father with others, especially your children, preferably with her or him if s/he is still here to receive your flowers. While the story of my father is woe, leaving my frame of reference maternal love, I fully appreciate being deprived of the great love many a child knows of their father. Celebrate him too! Don't wait until your parents birthday, Christmas, Mother's or Father's Day or God forbid, theit funeral. Give them their roses everyday! If we are blessed, one or both of our parents are our gift that never stops giving. Miss Higgi Says, Thank them...