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| Bud's
EyeviewRemembering Momma: African warriors are
every strong sister's manchild |
Woebeit over a decade has passed since my 76-year-old mother was pronounced dead at Memorial Northwest Hospital at 4:03 a.m. on October 9, 1991, but memories of her have kept her very much alive in my mind. Ergo, I say without an iota of shame in this old momma's boy's game, I sho' nuff miss that little woman. Winnie Mae (Fonteno) Johnson, was not only my mother but also my pal. Yes, I'm talking the kind of friend that the Hip-Hop generation use to refer to as their "Road Dog." For sure, I hear brain dead brothers and sisters espousing that silly dilly indictment of today's parents who want to be their kid's friend, rather than the strict disciplinarians and authority figures that some of them need to ideally become good people and productive citizens. Nevertheless, the relationship I had with my momma, after I reached the age of reason (12), had more to do with mutual respect and consideration for each other as human beings, rather than the usual unconditional love bonding a mother and her child. We just liked each other. And why not? I was born Jan. 7, exactly 19 years and 359 days before she turned 20 on Jan. 11, 1934. Meanwhile, my brother was born June 23, 1932, at a whopping 9 pounds 7 ounces and almost killed her. Not only did my 4'11'', 94-pound mother's heart stop during delivery, but also the huge baby left her with an incompetent cortex. Thus, I wasn't supposed to be here. Hey, you don't have to believe in miracles, or even Louisiana "who-do," but, my momma wore mysterious stuff around her neck for nine months and here I am. I was greeted into the world at 10 a.m. on a Sabbath day by a standing ovation of doctors and nurses at Jefferson Davis Hospital who feared I would be stillborn. Yeah, yeah! I hear the Twilight Zone music too. Square business, I ain't claiming an immaculate conception, but my autobiography will surely be relegated to the library's science fiction section. Then again, I've already shared too much information, so let's get on with this Mother's Day tribute. The sum total of my home training consisted of four C's: consideration, courtesy, caution and concentration. In spite of limited space, mayhaps, some hoochie momma, struggling to raise an African warrior without breaking his spirit, will benefit if I broke those C's down for them. Consideration for others, rather than always trying to make people consider you. Courtesy is self-explanatory, or check the Golden Rule in your Bible. Naturally, Caution simply translates to TSU's Dr. Thomas Freeman's idiom, "Trust nobody, at no time, about nothing and you'll never be disappointed. Oftentimes, you're pleasantly surprised when people do the right thing, but never disappointed. The fourth C pertains to your education, insofar as it's simply focusing on the task at hand. More succinctly, success starts with concentration, that's essential to education, enhanced by application and sustained by dedication. My mother preached self-sufficiency, therefore she never did anything for me, that I could learn to do for myself. Going to school was my job. If you didn't want to go, hello dropout age. Her logic was, your being dumb didn't make her any dumber. Your education was for you, not her. Then again, the flip side was, you went to school or work, because she sure wasn't dumb enough to feed a zero, who didn't have sense enough to take advantage of a free education. Outer Limits logic notwithstanding, I tried her and as a result I ended up graduating from Aldine Carver in 1953, instead of Wheatley in 1951. Oh yeah, after dropping out of school I worked two shifts at a bowling alley and earned more money than my parents. I decided to finish school, but since I broke the original contract, I was on my own. Ergo, I also worked every single day I attended TSU. Was that any way to treat a miracle baby? My mother's philosophy was, if you're grown enough to do what you want to... just do it. I suspect my mother's unique parenting technique was greatly influence by the fact she had to become the woman of her house at age 11. Her mother (Pearlie Easter Fonteno) died during childbirth and left her the oldest of five younger siblings to deal with during the Great Depression. Whatever the reason, she was big on "Every tub must sit on its own bottom." Now don't ask me what that means, but it had something to do with being independent. Her most salient lesson, however, was saving money. I was eight when I earned five bucks helping Robert Daniels Perry deliver his route for a month. My mother took me to the Second National Bank and I actually signed my first bank account. She told me that it was the foundation of my wealth and if you keep the foundation you can always build on it again she said. Believe it, or not, after 60 years of transferred accounts and a new millennium has come to pass, the foundation of my empire prevails. What I'm saying is, I've never been totally broke in my adult life. Nothing was worse to my mother than a broke man, who hustles another man for a few dollars. Cutting to the chase, my mother inspired the quality in me that all strong sisters admire in men: The ability to take care of themselves. African warrior notwithstanding, if a man can't take care of himself, how in the hell can he take care of his women, children, community or anything else? Here's wishing every sister who knows where I'm coming from a Happy Mother's Day. |
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