Jim Crow Louisiana; My Mother's Journey & Mother's Day

The only picture I possess of my mother - Clothilde Dewhart - taken in 1977 when she realized her dream of directing a group of us inner city children in a stage production at the San Francisco Opera House. I never realized at the time, how much she endured to give us that opportunity

In another week or two we will have Mother's Day upon us here in the U.S.  For several decades I've been pretty intentional about not celebrating any holiday sanctioned by this imperialist system.  I've taken this position militantly, up to and including deciding (along with her mother) not to raise our daughter within the context of any of these holidays.  My decision has caused a lot of difficulty over the years.  Family doesn't understand.  They used to think, I don't know if they still do because we don't discuss it any longer, that I was in some sort of cult by belonging to this Pan-Africanist political party.  They expressed, often, that they felt I was denying my daughter due to my beliefs.  The results of this contradiction are isolation and often being treated as if you have slain a family member because of fear and discomfort about my beliefs and way of life.  

For most of these holidays I've always been comforted through the difficulty by a strong sense of justice from the positions I've taken and carried out.  So-called holidays like the 4th of the lie, thankstaking, "Veterans" Day, and even Miss-Christ (with all its consumer hypocrisy and its diminishing of the principled life Jesus attempted to live) all represent such obvious contradictions for anyone with at least one eye open that its been simple on those days to relish having time off from capitalist work.  And, due to my political work, most of those types of "holidays" I'm usually engaged in political organizing work e.g. 4th of the lie commemorations (of which I was a very humble and proud innovator of in 2002 when we had the first such known commemoration here in Sacramento, California, U.S.).  As a result, those days come and go without a second thought for me, but Mother's Day has always posed some challenging moments.  I know this is true for multitudes of people who I've discussed this with over the years.  For some, the challenge is their less than ideal relationship with their mothers.  For others its the dilemma of wanting to honor the mothers in our lives, but not wanting to buy into the capitalist hype in doing so.  We are certainly clear as sunny weather that this capitalist system has absolutely no concern for any of the people impacted by any of these so-called holidays when its hyping all of us to spend money on them.  This system's interest in Miss Christ, 4th of the lie, Mother's Day, etc., is strictly for us to go out and spend money.  Even if you and your mother absolutely hate each other, capitalism would encourage you to take mom out to brunch.  Just don't discuss the difficulty.  Or, if you do, wait until after paying the bill.  For me, its always been a little bit of both.  Contradictions with the relationship and not wanting to play sheep with capitalism.

Regarding relationship, my issues in my mother/son relationship are much different than many.  She and I had a good relationship.  In my view, she did absolutely everything she could ever do to protect me.  And, there was much that I needed protection from.  I know she did her best.  And, she talked to me about everything that I ever got talked to about.  Much of her information was lacking.  Sometimes it was 100% incorrect, but she tried.  And, for that, I loved her and I've missed her everyday since she died in 2009.  The core issue with us was my father.  Much like my mother, my father tried his best to protect and take care of me.  I know he did.  Unlike my mother, he pretty much never talked to me about anything outside of sports or disciplinary issues, but I still always knew he loved and valued me.  As a result, I've missed him equally, everyday since he died in 1999.  

The primary issue with my parents was a systemic one.  And unlike so many people today, I've learned (thanks to the All African People's Revolutionary Party) to evaluate life from a collective perspective.  A collective African perspective.  I know how to decipher the demarcation line between systemic issues and individual effort.  That's why I know that the current capitalist value induced nonsense about your life being all about your personal choices is absolute garbage and I can easily use my mother's life to illustrate that.

My parents didn't talk much to me about their lives.  I know now that the reason for this was they were nowhere near healthy enough on an emotional level to do so.  My parents did spend a lot of time talking to each other.  I used to look forward to early on Saturday mornings when my father returned from working graveyard shifts at the Post Office.  My mother would be up along with my maternal grandmother who lived with us until her death in 1980.  The three of them would sit in the kitchen, drink coffee, and talk about Louisiana.  Once my grandmother made her physical transition, my parents would continue this tradition from their bedroom.  And, I would soak in every word because most of what I knew about Louisiana, before traveling there multiple times on my own without my parents as an adult, was learned from listening into these conversations.  

From listening in I learned that my mother escaped from Monroe, Louisiana, U.S. as a 16 year old abused girl.  She lived on a farm and she bitterly complained about having to pick cotton for Europeans.  She bragged about purposely picking cotton stems with thorns attached so that she would be deemed unfit the continue to pick it.  This was one of my first lessons about resistance that our people waged everyday.  Jim Crow as a system completely obliterated my family.  Most of the men, as was policy for Jim Crow segregation, were incarcerated for long periods of time for the slightest and/or nonexistent infractions.  The women, as was the case with my mother, were forced to find creative ways to take care of their families.  With my grandfather, a man named Archie Black who I only ever knew from an old black and white photograph, locked up and unable to interact with his family, my grandmother was forced to venture out to California where she spent 45 years cleaning white people's laundry while living with us.  I remember when she died.  She had worked with some white people's laundry to the point where she had a stroke.  Ignoring the obvious issues taking place with her health, those rich San Francisco white folks in North Beach sent her home to us on public transportation that day.  To this day I have never wanted to go to North Beach as a result.  I was always afraid I may want to extract revenge.  

My grandmother would send money back to Louisiana each month to her sister, my great aunt, who raised my mother.  That experience was so traumatic to my mother that it was only in very recent years since my mother's death that I finally learned the name of my great aunt who raised my mother.  To this day, I still don't know the name of my great aunt's husband who was there with her.  My mother simply called him "uncle."  And, she spoke with such contempt for him that I never dared ask her, or anyone else about him.  All I know is that he was some sort of moonshine drinking preacher of some measure.  Abuse of a physical and sexual nature happened to my mother.  I know this just from piecing together what I learned from listening to those conversations.  I also know that on more than one occasion, white racist night riders rode up to my mother's aunt and uncle's farm to attempt to intimidate and harass them.  She and my father actually exchanged stories of this happening to them in Monroe, where my mother was, and in Streveport, where my father was raised.  In fact, all of the relatives used to recount racist night rider stories.  The stories absolutely terrified me as a child, but for them, it was equally as terrifying, but also just a typical daily occurrence.  This is an essential point because today people try to act like Emmet Till was a single spectacular event when I know this type of terrorism was daily life for my people in this country.  This is why even the most limited thinker should be able to determine that when white people, many of whom aren't even from the Southern U.S. claim that they desire to protect "their heritage" of confederacy, you never see many Africans who are from the South doing the same.  I'm not talking about the one off idiot.  I'm talking about no mass of African people from the Southern U.S. hanging confederate flags and claiming "Sweet Home Alabama."  With the overwhelming majority of Africans in the U.S. having Southern U.S. roots, it would seem like it would be interesting to even the biggest white fool why so many of these people aren't feeling this jubilation of Southern pride.  

These are the terrifying conditions my mother grew up with.  So, I understand clearly why her meeting my father was a turning point in her life.  He was the first, and only person, in her view, that accepted her completely and had her back.  He had his own demons to grapple with from his racist Jim Crow upbringing though.  In fact, I would characterize my parents life as one of him working overtime to deal with the trauma of his life while she spent so much of that time working to support him.  Alcohol for him was so much of an issue that it ended up being his demise.  To the very end, she was there doing her best to have his back.  When he died 20 years ago they had been married (ironically on the 4th of the lie) for 39 1/2 years.  Had they lived, they would be celebrating their 60th year married this year.  And, I can even reason that this backward racist system is the core reason why neither them or my grandmother lived into their 70s.

With my mother having to spend so much time following behind my father with his challenges, there was never much time left over for her to pay much attention to me.  She tried.  I know she did, but there just wasn't enough capacity.  And, early on, I had every issue imaginable, but the support wasn't there.  This is what is meant by saying our oppression as African people creates generational trauma.  This systemic problem was passed on to me and I've suffered quite a bit my entire life as a result of basically having to raise myself in an environment that was not a friendly one.  For the first part of my life, I failed miserably.  I remember a time when I was so insecure I would not even walk across a room or place full of people.  I just wouldn't do it.  Ever.  This fear of being has caused so much trauma for me its still to this day very difficult for me to even think about it.  I have made overwhelming progress which I try to think of my parent's challenges as a method of celebrating this, along with the great social skills my daughter possesses that already far exceed anything I'll ever accomplish.

Where I've landed with my mother - Clothilde Dewhart (from research I've conducted, I've realized that my family's actual Louisiana slave name was spelled Duhart - pronounced Da-holt - a French name that reflected my family's slave legacy in Louisiana.  I will never know for sure why my father changed the spelling, but I have a pretty good idea) is honor my mother's efforts to do her best, with the deck of cards she was given, to be the best mother to me that she could be.  And because I know that, I miss her daily and wish she was still here.  I told her that often when she got sick and I know that she knows this is how I feel, despite my issues early on.  So, that is how I've resolved the issue of commemorating my mother.  I do every way that I can privately and publicly.  My daughter and I spend a lot of time with me telling her the limited amount that I know about my parents.  We enjoy working to figure out all of the missing pieces to the best that we can to such an extent that my daughter has taken it upon herself to explore much of the missing history for herself.  This is another adventure she and I are enjoying participating in.

As for the Mother's Day Holiday itself.  My mother isn't physically here so its much easier for me to not get caught up in that process.  I try to honor her on a regular basis anyway.  That way, I can avoid being directed by capitalism when to acknowledge people I should be acknowledging everyday.  

I'm working with my daughter to develop more formal ways to acknowledge my parents on a regular basis.  I encourage everyone to figure out ways to honor your people in ways that don't depend upon the capitalist system to guide you.  I also encourage everyone to recognize that people in 2019 are products of what has transpired leading up to this date.  I've never lived under "official" Jim Crow, but I certainly feel like it has had a major influence on my life. It has had a major influence on my daughter's life and it will have a major influence on her children's lives.  This is true for everyone.  Despite the efforts of this system to convince people this is something people "just need to learn how to move on from" instead, we want to encourage people to figure out healthy ways to honor our legacies in ways that inspire us to create something much better in a country that wouldn't know how to even spell "being great."  I believe my parent's greatest legacy, both of them, was the fierce determination they each possessed to hold onto their dignity.  I always saw that and I learned from it.  They never learned even a fraction of what I know about our African identify and history and they certainly never traveled anywhere like I have.  Yet, they maintained that strong dignity that I try my best to carry into the future by passing it on to not only my daughter, but all young people that I work with.  My parents, especially my mother taught me that it doesn't matter how much money you have or don't have. It doesn't matter whether you have a car or house.  The only thing that really matters is how you conduct yourself.  How you treat people and how you demand they treat you.  Superficiality was never a thing in my early life and its still a very difficult thing for me to navigate through since so many people are so shallow it seems.  Its that dignity that defines Jim Crow for me and its my mother that I have to thank for that.  So, Mother's Day (everyday) isn't about a brunch to me.  Its not about flowers.  Its about respecting my mother's legacy on dignity and taking that message forward to everyone one of our people who is willing and ready to adopt that very critical message.