On Saturdays she’d go downtown Newark to run errands and shop. We’d hit Hahne’s and Woolworth’s. She’d buy me a hot dog and an orange drink in the basement of Bamberger’s for lunch. On the way home, she’d sometimes stop at the fish place, to get a little something to fry up later on for dinner.

She made me go to bed at my normal bedtime the night Motown 25 was on, but screamed out “The Jacksons!” because she knew I was still awake in my room, mad about not getting to see Michael. I remember when she sent us to our rooms when they all watched Eddie Murphy’s Delirious. We quietly listened, pressed against the door, trying to figure out what it was we weren’t supposed to hear.

My brother was six years younger than me, I got bored a lot. She played Boggle and Atari with me. She would wipe the floor with me in Ms. Pac-Man. She had me entertain her sometimes, too. I thought she really was amazed by my Michael Jackson dance moves, but now, I know she was mostly tickled. She was also tickled when I sang Silver Bells. My “soprano” amused her. I wasn’t always in on the joke, but her laugher made me happy.

She took me to the library, often. I developed my addiction for Encyclopedia Brown sitting in the Orange Main Street branch. There were always books around. When I ran out of stories, I read one of the many dictionaries around the house. When I got bored memorizing words, I read the Encyclopedias that she spent a mint on. She’d even bought some type of audio-version, a million-tapes, that I was supposed to listen to and memorize; but I don’t think those cassettes ever made into my boom box.

When she took me coat shopping my freshman year of high school, she refused to buy the hooded red and black checked lumberjack jacket, with the fur collar. She pointed to the beige, leather goose, just like one Run-D.M.C. wore and said, “Trust me.” I always did, except for when she begged me not to wear the suit I designed to my senior prom. I should shave listened. The prom photos never made it to her wall.

I went to a Catholic high school. It wasn’t free…but somehow, she managed to keep me enrolled after my father faded away. Disappeared is more accurate. She watched as the acceptance letters rolled in for college – Rutgers, Morehouse, Hampton, and while there wasn’t much, she never let me feel like I couldn’t go. She figured it out how to make it happen.

She couldn’t quite understand how I was moving to Los Angeles without a job, after I graduated Hampton. She seemed upset, but looking back, it was mostly fear. Still, she had my back.  She paid rent (a few times). She bought food (often). She paid electric bills (once, or twice). This was when I asked HER to trust ME. I was on to something. I needed to be there. She trusted me (mostly). She was there when I graduated from the American Film Institute and spoke as the salutatorian. She was proud. Then, shortly after, she said, “Cut up the credit cards and figure out how to live.” She was doing exactly what she needed to do for me at that time. It was rocky, but I’ve figured it out (kinda).

My wit, quick remarks, world view and shade have roots in her. She gets to the point like no one else I’ve ever met. She’s descriptive. She’s funny. All of this shows up in how I move through the world. When I would say “I want…” about something she’d already told me no, she’d reply, “People in hell want ice water.” That would be it. Hated it then, but now I get it. She wanted me to know that you don’t always get what you want; a lesson that too few people learn.

For a couple of years recently, she had two full-time jobs. The first was the job that paid her, the other was caring for my grandmother who had fallen ill with dementia. She did all of things that needed to be done; the caring for, the money management, the legal matters, etc., all while watching herself slip from her mother’s memory. She almost broke. Almost.

When things were rough, she seemed unflappable, maybe too much so. She seemed superhuman. I wish that I’d seen her as human…earlier. I would have noticed that she had ups and downs. I would have noticed when things were tight. I would have noticed how much work went into making our family machine run. Maybe I could have done more to give something to her. The truth is, she wouldn’t have let us see, or feel, any of that, because she was doing her job in the only way she knew how – providing, protecting, shielding and loving.

She’s still doing that.

She’s been my “day one,” since day one.

She is everything.

Happy Mother’s Day.

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