Remembrance: Our Brother Malcolm

I was writing a different kind of piece last Monday morning...ironically on the other male star of The Cosby Show. Based on a series of coincidences, I thought the stars had aligned in such a way that it was timely for me to finally return to some other pieces I began writing months ago on the issue of watching the show anew (in middle age). So when I saw a picture of Malcolm-Jamal Warner on my phone, I initially thought, ah another sign. He must be making news for saying something newsworthy on his podcast or maybe he has a new endeavor? Then I scrolled down...

JUST the previous week my Niece sent me a picture (the one that I posted here) from that iconic Gordon Gartrell shirt episode. JUST this past weekend I happened to see a clip of that unforgettable Grandparents' 49th Anniversary performance that we all adore. JUST a month or so ago, I read about an interview where Warner talked about having made peace with being Theo after years of resenting the character. JUST before he died, he reunited with his TV baby sister Keisha Knight Pulliam on his podcast.

This tragic news JUST stirs up every complicated and devastating emotion imaginable. 

To be honest, there is no way to make sense of this tragedy or to separate in my mind (for the moment) that there is/was any difference between Theodore Huxtable and Malcolm-Jamal Warner. I mean, I know that they were two distinct people--one a fictional creation and the other was the actor who brought that character to life. There was no Theo without Malcolm, so we find ourselves mourning Sondra, Denise, Vanessa, and Rudy's brother. Best friend to Cockroach, on/off again boyfriend of Justine. Cliff and Clair's only son. 

Because Theo was the only other man in a house full of women, it was probably intended that his character would bring a fair number of laughs. That was clearly the tone throughout most of the pilot, with him acting as the family antagonist, punctuated by a shrug and "no problem" as his potential catchphrase, consistent with typical sitcom formula. Right when that contrived lesson on "regular people" and budgeting with play money reached its peak, we all thought the emotional pay-off was Theo's big speech about acceptance. It got the expected live studio audience response; however, it was Dr. Huxtable's irritated retort that delivered the punchline. From this literal flip-the-script moment that abandoned every sitcom trope we had seen in the 20 minutes prior, a different kind of family sitcom was born.

In this new iteration, this urban Black family, different than any other that had been depicted on-screen, made us laugh about a lot of regular and random stuff. Instead of weekly problems caused by the end of the money arriving before the end of the month, there was a funeral for a goldfish and a Father's Day do-over for better presents. There were only a handful of topical "very special" episodes. Every Huxtable kid got to shine and evolve in unique ways: Rudy was bossy, Vanessa was boy-crazy, Denise was flaky, Sondra was the eldest, and Theo was their brother. It was a multi-generational family, so there were grandparents, in-laws, grandchildren, cousins, neighbors, and a lot of friends. They ate dinner together, had family meetings, and the worst fight we saw between the siblings was over an ugly sweater. 

That's the extent of the critical analysis I will offer on the show at this time. Instead, I want to make the bold declaration that in spite of what I just wrote about each Huxtable sharing the privilege of making us laugh, most of our favorite episodes either focused on Theo or consisted of him stealing the scene: getting his ear pierced; the Shakespearean rap-sody assignment; the running joke about his voracious appetite; not making it onto Dance Mania; that helicopter to the prom fiasco; the wild party with the broken furniture that almost landed him in the Army; and those two performances for the Huxtable Grandparents' anniversaries (this was for the 50th). In lieu of developing a signature line (e.g., Dyn-o-mite, watchu talkin' bout Willis, or Did I do that), we got a series of Theo-isms. For example, that Stevie Wonder episode was one of the corniest, yet I dare you not to smile as you read jammin' on the one, a classic Theo-ism. For the past few days, nearly every remembrance of Theo has made a reference to this infamous shirt.

Given Theo's growth and evolution throughout the run of the show, it was fitting that the series finale culminated in a "family" reunion for his graduation from NYU. Included in that emotional farewell to the show was a flashback to that pivotal scene from the pilot. Thanks to syndication, we were blessed to revisit the Huxtables often through the years...until.

In a perverse way, the fallout from Cosby's sexual assault allegations forced Warner and the other actors to forge alternative identities for themselves beyond the show. That proved to be more of a challenge for some cast members, but not for Warner who had begun eyeing various career options and expansion before The Cosby Show ended. In addition to a few cameo appearances in music videos and on other sitcoms, Warner also tried his hand at directing. I found out last year that he was one of the co-directors of Off to See the Wretched (1990)--an episode that has become equally as iconic as that lopsided shirt. He appeared in an HBO TV movie on the Tuskegee Airmen in 1995; starred in a few more sitcoms and TV dramas; made a cameo in a memorable Key & Peele skit; and just kept working. While none of those characters would have the same enduring pop cultural impact as Theo, at least Warner wasn't typecast like so many other child actors. 

On social media, several of my friends have posted personal remembrances of encounters with Warner, and I have my own fame-adjacent story to share from more than a decade ago. He appeared in a local stage adaptation of Guess Who's Coming to Dinner in 2013. I attended a stage talk with my Mom and got my parents tickets to see the production as a Christmas present. Until that moment, I had never looked at Malcolm-Jamal Warner as anything other than a play cousin. Suddenly, here was this handsome man, taller than I realized striding to center stage, and for the first time my head tilted to the side and my Mom sat up straight in her seat. And I thought to myself okay I see you Malcolm, looking like a burger...deluxe with the works (cue Theo-ism at 0:59).

Mind you, at this point he hadn't been Theo for 20 years. And the point of recalling that wasn't to admit to ogling but about taking notice of just how far we'd all come since his first TV role. It was his confidence and graciousness that got our attention, his openness about tackling new challenges as an artist, and his accessibility. It was like reuniting with a childhood friend, picking up where we last left things, and realizing just how much we've missed their presence. It was so refreshing to see Malcolm on his own terms.

Warner's untimely death means that I need to rethink the other concurrent pieces on The Cosby Show I have waiting to be completed in the drafts. I started writing about the show last Fall after I began to watch it again, as well as the other piece I alluded to about Cosby that I started writing this past weekend. While I try to sort out how to proceed, I want to do so with sensitivity to the emotions that are swirling around everyone who knew and worked with Warner, including Bill Cosby. Ironically, in the immediate aftermath of learning of Warner's death, my thoughts went to his TV Dad.

I vividly remember when Cosby's son Ennis was killed in 1997. We were all aware that the fictional Theo had been modeled on real-life Ennis Cosby, and at the time, Cosby was still regarded as America's Dad. Until he spoke out about Warner's death, it was unclear if they had remained in touch or how their relationship had been impacted by Cosby's dramatic fall from grace. It wasn't surprising to learn that Warner remained in contact with his mentor because in spite of what we know now, what we saw on camera for all of those years wasn't just a working relationship. 

Thus is the nature of life and death--it's complicated. Contrary to what I wrote initially about feeling like we've lost Theo, the truth is that we haven't. Theo Huxtable lives on, forever suspended in youthful, syndicated immortality. For those of us who have access to The Cosby Show in reruns, we can pretty much enjoy his antics on a regular basis. We can cycle through the seasons and watch Theo grow up and graduate in perpetuity.

However, we have lost Malcolm, our brother, best friend, on and off again teenage crush, and for some, our son. We lost our homie and what he embodied: a very smart, intentional, deep thinking and thoughtful, strong yet vulnerable brother. We lost that mad cool dude who vibed with us like smooth jazz on a Sunday afternoon. We lost the voice of a poet, an artist who had so much to say. His family lost a man who had taken on what he believed to be (and was) the most important role of his life as a husband and father. In recognition of his namesake, we lost one of the best examples of our living Black manhood, a shining Black prince. And in spite of his 40-year career, it still seems unfair that we lost him too soon. 

Our Brother from Another Mother

I cannot believe I am writing this piece in this moment, but I could not just go on with my day and not acknowledge just how heartbroken I am upon learning of Malcolm-Jamal Warner's untimely death by drowning.

This is literally me writing in the moment, while I have a brief window of time before I have to snap out of this and get back to life, back to reality. Errands, getting my daughter from camp, thinking about what to fix for dinner...and trying to write, finish, and publish several other drafts for this blog. Including the one on Warner's fictional father that I started yesterday.

Talk about timing.

My Teen Niece just sent me this text last week --->

I just happened to have had a conversation with someone wherein we agreed that Malcolm and Eddie (1996-2000) was a terrible show.

In one of those random Facebook timeline recommendations, someone just posted a video about secret Hollywood couples which included Warner in two. I actually knew about one but was reminded about the other. 

There are so many coincidental reasons why Malcolm-Jamal Warner had been popping up all over the place, mostly Cosby Show related, but also just not too long ago because of an interview he gave wherein he addressed not wanting to be remembered only as Theo Huxtable.

So I just don't know how else to feel, because as far as I am concerned, we just lost Theo for real and it sucks because it is more appropriate and accurate to say that we just lost Malcolm.

We lost Malcolm, our brother from another mother.

If you understand what that means, we're not mourning like we lost a sitcom character or the actor who portrayed that character as if we didn't know him. Most of us didn't know him. But we knew him because we saw him grow up on television, and if you are of a certain age, we all grew up together.

And he was one of the key members of a fictional family that we loved. There is so much to say about that character, but now isn't the right time because I need to go in 5 minutes and I just need to keep the focus on Malcolm...

Because Malcolm was more than Theo and maybe it isn't fair that contrary to everything else he did, we will primarily remember him for that singular character. Sure, he had other roles, tried his hand at directing, and like many of us, has a family that is similarly reeling in shock.

So I will try to figure out how to come back to this and say something more meaningful. For Malcolm.

Mother of the Dance

Last July, I received a phone call that quite literally took my breath away. It came amidst a period of upheaval and chaos, not personal but national--it was the Monday of that same week that would upend the Presidential election. Imagine me thinking that the worst thing that could possibly happen in a year was the death of my Mom. Sadly, one of the ironies of life is it's hold my beer or glass of sweet white wine¹ way of reminding us that things can always get worse. So, I instinctively dreaded that when I got a call from an old friend (her daughter-in-law) in the middle of the afternoon, the reason why she was calling was not just to check in. It was to inform me that my long-time dance teacher, Mrs. Rosetta A. Brooks (Mrs. B) had passed unexpectedly.

I had intended to publish this tribute back in September. I wrote a version of the second half (after the jump) in August and had hoped to have it read at her memorial service. But for a variety of reasons, things didn't work out, so Plan B was to post it here right before the implosion of the election. Then came the holidays, more distractions, and the realization that maybe it isn't my imagination that I'm finding it a lot harder to focus or finish anything lately.

Instead of lamenting that particular downside of aging, I figured that at the right time I would eventually make my way back to finishing what I started. Eight months later, we were driving back from New Jersey and while listening to a late afternoon gospel music program out of Baltimore, I heard a song² that I thought I knew but couldn't place how or why. Normally, that kind of disconnect would have caused me to fixate until solving the riddle; however, by the second verse I recognized it as part of a suite of familiar dance pieces. 

According to the calendar, it has been a year since the last time I saw Mrs. B at my daughter's dance recital, June 1, 2024. Each week, I sit in my car not far from the very spot where we had our last conversation. To think that interaction almost did not happen...but God. In a seemingly random series of ways, everything divinely aligned. Instead of leaving immediately after the show, I had my daughter pose for pictures in both of her costumes, which took time. I'm sure that I got to chatting with some folks whom I hadn't seen in a while as that is the nature of these kinds of event. When I made it outside, I saw my Dad's priest wandering past, so I stopped to talk with him. Then finally, on my way to my car, I saw Mrs. B slowly trudging her way across the courtyard to her car. Although I was used to seeing her walk with a cane, she seemed to be moving a lot more cautiously, almost dragging her body alongside a much taller walking stick that was twice her height. As always, she was toting more than one bag including one that held several bouquets of flowers she had received in honor of her being named director emerita of the studio.

My daughter had given her one of those bouquets, which turned out to be another one of those random impulses that God must have whispered into my spirit. I had dropped the Kid off to get ready for the show, and with a little time to fill before it began, I made a quick side trip to Trader Joe's to buy wine and flowers. I snapped up a few bouquets for my dancer, her teachers, and since I knew that Mrs. B was expected to attend, I grabbed one for her as well. Until the previous October, she had been one of the Kid's teachers too. 

Until that previous October, it would have been inconceivable to think of St. Mark's Dance Studio and not have a simultaneous thought or memory of the ubiquitous Rosie Brooks. The very suggestion of her retiring was taboo, even if she was the person floating that trial balloon. Thus, when she had to take medical leave unexpectedly, we all hoped it would be temporary. In 40 years, I had never known her to get sick or injured enough to miss teaching classes. Paradoxically, it should have occurred to me that if she needed to take a medical leave of absence, then whatever the cause was a lot more serious than we wanted to believe. Therefore, I never imagined that our catch-up in the parking lot that day would be our last. Or that as we chatted about my Mom and she reassured me that I should take all of the time I needed to grieve, I would need to apply that same advice to my feelings about losing her.

In life, we aren't always given opportunities to let our loved ones know how much they mean to us. Sure, we have special holidays, formal observances, greeting cards, etc., but transitions don't tend to coincide with those moments. We become aware in hindsight or once we've missed the moment and promised to do better the next time. What happens if there is no next time? How to cope with the reality that you didn't make good on that promise to stop by one afternoon while she was teaching? Nor get to drop in to take a class for the first time since the pandemic? Nor just come to sit and chat like we used to in that big gap of time she had midday before her afternoon classes? How do you accept that you really never told her how much she meant to you because you had all of these ideas about how that should be communicated in some grand fashion, but she died before you got to formalize the proposal, let alone implement any plans?

Maybe that's why the church folks always tell us that we have to give people their flowers when they are able to smell them. Because six weeks later, I got that phone call and that meant I would not get to make good on any of my promises to visit. Instead of the retirement celebration I had envisioned to include testimonials and revival performances of some of her classic pieces, there was a memorial service. 

That I had to watch online from the road because of a scheduling conflict...

Presuming that eight months of procrastination can indeed be blamed on brain fog and aging, it could also be that I felt a bit ashamed and a heap of guilt that this would be the only way I would ever get to express any appreciation for this relationship that spanned 40 years. Had I known that I wouldn't get another chance to do anything meaningful, what more could I possibly have said in that parking lot? Thank you? For not dismissing me as some gangly limbed freak when I showed up to start ballet classes at the ripe old age of 10? Thank you for seeing whatever it was you saw in me that kept me dancing all of those years. Thank you for being tough and honest and pushy because I needed to be challenged, disciplined, and encouraged. Thank you for loving my daughter. Thank you for being more than a dance teacher because you were also a confidant, a mentor, a life coach, and most of all, a friend.

It hasn't taken me all this time just to say thanks. It has taken me almost a year to confront my guilt and release my regrets for not being able to show up as I would have wanted. If writing this was the least I could do, then leaving it unfinished to languish in the drafts has been the worst. So it was not mere happenstance that something as subtle as a song inspired me to return to this piece. It was a nudge and a reminder that this was never supposed to be about me...but about her. 

A year ago, some of her former students, my daughter among them, got to dance for her. Instead of being worried about the behind-the-scenes technical stuff, Mrs. B got to sit and watch the show. For all I know, this might have been the first time in 40 years that she wasn't running everything. In that unscripted, serendipitous encounter in the parking lot, she praised how well everything had been managed in her absence. It must have filled Mrs. B with pride upon seeing what she had built, with confidence that we could carry on, and with reassurance that she had trained us so well. In essence, she had received something far more substantial than bunches of grocery store flowers--she got to bear witness to all she had done at and for SMDS all these years. Assurance that her legacy would endure and flourish is the kind of gratification that is priceless and beautiful beyond words. 

My daughter in costume from
Mrs. B's recital piece in 2023

The next part is what I wrote for the memorial service on behalf of the disbanded dance company/former students/current parents, but for the sake of expediency in the planning process, it got dropped from the program. Then because I couldn't be there in person, it seemed appropriate to convert my remembrance into a reflection to be read privately by her family. However, there was no way I could allow 800 words to suffice as my final farewell given the nature of our 40-year relationship. The version published after the jump is longer than what was submitted to the family...one of the perks/pitfalls of editing my own blog. 

 -- ADH

Life Goes On (and On)

Scrolling through the drafts and I noticed this one that I had attempted to write during the summer. This was started a week before Father's Day. A lot of this was covered in this piece that was already published in October, so there are redundancies and/or details that might have been more present for me in the short-term as opposed to several months later. I will explain more after the jump. --ADH

It has been a little more than three months. 

When I woke up on the morning of February 27, I'm sure that I had no idea that it would be her last day, even though I had been given ample advance warning that her time was coming. What I remember knowing for certain that morning when I dropped my daughter off at school and the Hub at work, was that I desperately needed to get a few uninterrupted hours of writing done. I had been struggling for weeks to publish anything, so my hope was to finish something (or make some progress on a few of the various pieces I had been writing), and then to see my Mom that later afternoon after my daughter's dance class. 

I mentioned having had advanced warning because my Mom had been in hospice since last September. So I knew...but I had also been lulled into a false sense that she would defy the odds, be de-certified from receiving hospice care, and continue to carry on living in the background of the lives we had built for ourselves. It was a selfish wish. So I knew, but I just didn't want to believe.

There were signs. During the month of January, which I now call Calamuary, everything began to unravel. My Mom's long-time home health aide went out on extended medical leave for a double hip replacement, a procedure she put off for months or possibly years. My parents' long-term care insurance, which had been slow-walking reimbursement payments since the summer, reminded me that they are in the business of making money not paying it out. The home health care agency that recently went conglomerate by acquiring smaller agencies and changing its name to reflect the fact that it was not a conglomerate, informed me that it intended to increase their rates. This is also while they sent us an ever-limited rotation of aides who were certified to work in our jurisdiction. The hospice nurse, who had been jovial and upbeat for most of her weekly visits in 2023, began to look worried mere weeks after the start of the New Year. Then the furnace fucking stopped working. 

We survived. I prayed that we could make it to her birthday, February 1, and then kept praying. On the night of her birthday when I finally made my way over to the house to see her, the indications that I had been warned would signal the end were more evident. She wasn't awake. If she ate, we had to be more careful to prevent aspiration. The pressure sore on her tailbone began to get worse. She looked frail and weak and was rapidly losing weight. I brought her a gourmet birthday cookie, which I think my daughter ended up eating a few days later.

For Valentine's Day, I bought candy and make little treat boxes for the home care aides, including her long-time aide. She had wanted to schedule a visit and a day of beauty for Mom, and had enlisted the services of her daughter, but I hesitated. Not on having her visit, but I was concerned that my Mom wasn't strong enough for anything taxing like getting her hair done. But I agreed in theory that something was needed to lift the heaviness that had begun to permeate the house since the furnace fiasco of the previous month. We still had Christmas decorations up which my brother hastily took down (but I have yet to put them away). So I bought a banner that I intended to hang in her room. We opted for the living room where the now empty Christmas stocking hooks were affixed to the fireplace mantle. My thinking was that she might see the banner along with the weekly bouquet of flowers I brought for her when she was seated in her wheelchair.

There had been signs. I would not say that I didn't notice, but that I was unwilling to fully acknowledge them. In other words, I definitely knew, but I had been operating under the childish wish that if I kept my eyes closed and my fingers in my ears and if I sang aloud, then I could pretend not to notice what was happening. I could fake ignore that my Mom was dying in some futile attempt to avoid it, as if that would have made a difference.

It didn't. At about 11am that morning, after I had settled into a groove of writing, I got the call from the hospice nurse. I took a shower and got dressed. I packed up my computer and my chargers. I called my brothers and then a few relatives. I honestly don't remember if that is the exact order of things, but I know that I was on the phone with my college roommate when I arrived at the house. My younger brother, who had been waiting for me, met me outside to let me know that he was leaving to pick up our kids from school. Inside, my Dad's priest was administering Last Rites and the home care aide (whose name I don't remember) was praying and crying. At some point, relatives began to arrive. One of my uncles sat in the living room with his head in his hands. Someone announced that there was food in the kitchen. Friends of mine arrived. At some point, I even received a phone call from Africa.

Then everyone left. My Mom was still breathing, but with difficultly it seemed, so we questioned whether the morphine would help. We decided that it would, and then we discussed what might happen the next morning...

The details of someone's last day mean more to the people who are able to remember them. Of this I am clear because I don't know what my Mom knew or felt. I can't ask her. I go into her empty room and while I feel her presence, it is not the same as it was when she was physically in that hospital bed, in my Dad's den that had been converted into an accessible first floor bedroom. 

I am not okay.

So if you ask, I will lie and say that I am, not because I want to be deceptive, but because I have made the calculation that answering honestly in that moment will likely require me to elaborate or listen to some nicely intentioned, but tone-deaf speech. I know that my Mom is with me and that she is proud of me (at least I think she is). Yes, I will miss her forever, as I try to figure out how I got through these months without crumbling.

Death Un-Becomes Me

I have been putting this off for the longest, although by now most of you already know. I just hadn't formally taken the time to share that my mother passed away at the end of February of this year.

I am unsure how this piece is going to unfold since it has taken me seven months to sit down to write about this new phase of my life on this blog. Call it my "Journey Through Grief" era (to borrow a popular overused refrain). I have written a few posts on social media about my Mom and my travels on this road so far, and I will link to those throughout in case anybody wants to know how I felt at any particular moment along the way. 

I can tell you that I have probably experienced all five stages of grief, with varying degrees of intensity. And something about this change in seasons has me more disconsolate, unfocused, and in a state of inertia. I consulted Dr. Google, and my self-diagnosis is either seasonal affective disorder, a nervous breakdown, or perimenopause. (Side note: I am not making the subject of my mental health into punchline, just pointing out how symptoms overlap.) 

Everything has become a contradiction--I feel like I have been avoiding life while also desiring to become more adventurous and daring. That isn't entirely uncharacteristic of me in normal times, but it does seem to be more pronounced. I thought that with this election coming fast and furious, I would jump right in, and I have to the point where I have probably over-extended myself. Somehow, immersing myself into the work of saving democracy seems to be a more worthwhile endeavor than cleaning out my Mom's closets.

A year ago, it was my prayer that my Mom would outlive the need for hospice care by continuing to defy the odds. At her last hospitalization in August, we were told to expect her not to live more than a year, but the early indications were that she might actually thrive instead of decline. So I didn't rush to make any of the final plans that were recommended because I figured that even if we were living on borrowed time, living was the operative understanding. Hell, we're all living on borrowed time for that matter...

However, at the end of September, I made mental notes that each of the pending holidays could be our last...I just never verbalized any of it to anyone. And while she didn't appear to visibly decline, she never really improved to the point of being de-certified from needing hospice; and in hindsight, I wasn't really seeing things as they were. That was until Calamuary January (my term for how every effing thing that could go wrong that month absolutely did). It began when her long-term home care aide went out for a double hip replacement. That same weekend, the furnace in the house went out. I had been fighting with the insurance company over their spending caps and the shortages for months, and that was draining her finances. In response to yet another rate increase (thanks to a corporate consolidation), I had begun to negotiate ways to reduce care hours and creatively fill in gaps. And in the midst of all of that, the hospice nurse alerted me to some ominous physical changes.

Thus, by my Mom's birthday, I had gotten used to receiving a daily update on the list of new catastrophes. A pressure sore that wouldn't heal. Only one partial meal. Weight loss. So when the hospice nurse gave us the definitive unwelcome assessment mid-month and then having my Dad task me with sharing that news with my brothers, the outcome was pretty unescapable. I made some of the necessary preparations on the financial end and went through a few of the motions of mental preparation. I prayed. I visited as often as I could to tell her the things one says when they aren't sure what else there is to say.

On that final Sunday before, it was by pure chance that I had a ticket to see a play at Arena Stage. It was about Anna Julia Cooper, a historical icon who had been a principal at the turn of the century at the high school my Mom attended in the 1960s. And pretty much as soon as I found my seat, I knew that this was all some kind of divine message to prepare myself--that I just happened to be at one of her favorite theatre venues to see a play about her high school alma mater to learn about the life of a celebrated educator (just like my her) on the same day that the alumni had chosen to attend? As soon as the play ended, I rushed to the house to tell her about it. I don't remember if she was awake or know if she heard any of what I said or if she even knew I had been there. 

That Tuesday morning, I planned to get a few hours of writing done before making my way over to the house. It was the routine to visit in between the end of the school day and the start of Kid's dance class. But an hour after I settled into my groove, the hospice nurse called, and let me just say how I wish the rest of the day was a total blur, but...

It wasn't. And honestly, I'm glad I remember every minute because I don't know how I would feel if I had to admit that on the very last day of my mother's life, I was operating in a daze or a fog. I'm glad that I remember every visitor (and there were a LOT), every person who prayed with us, and the fact that wherever three or more Black people are gathered, somebody is going to bring enough fried chicken to feed the multitude. When I tell you that I am grateful for every second of that day, even its agonizing and traumatic conclusion, I mean that. 

I was there, right up until just before the end. After all of the visitors had left, we were transitioning from the afternoon caregiver to the overnight person. My Mom's breathing had become more labored, so she was given morphine. We discussed the plan for the following day, and I sat in the room with her for a few minutes just holding her hand. Then my brother came into the room, so I gave him my seat and went into the living room. It happened in the blink of an eye--my brother noticed that her breathing had stopped and after a few seconds of uncertainty about detecting a heartbeat, my Dad instructed me to call the ambulance. Within minutes, there were red lights, EMTs, and then this enormous suspension of reality between life, death, and procedures...

Life. She was gone. We all knew it, but in the same stubborn refusal that had been her way of barreling through and fighting back, we went through all of the motions of doing everything humanly possible not to accept reality. When the EMT arrived, I told them that she was end-stage Alzheimer's and was about to mention hospice when my Dad interrupted me. Do all you can, he told them, so I deferred.

Death. After 15 minutes, one of the EMTs told me that they would continue, but not to expect a change. By this point, my younger brother had returned with his daughter and the afternoon caregiver. I had exiled my Dad to the living room because it was too much to expect for him to watch. The day had been excruciating enough, so I stood there in the doorway--equal parts sentinel/supervisor/witness to the futility of trying to resuscitate her. Not because I had lost faith in miracles; on the contrary, it was my hope was that her ordeal would finally be over.

Procedures. The EMTs made the call and respectfully left. Unbeknownst to us, the police were on the scene to determine if any foul play had been involved, but the officer conducted his investigation with the understanding that there was nothing untoward. The hospice nurse called, and then informed us to expect another nurse to certify the post-mortem. As that nurse went about her examination, disposing of and reclaiming the medications, completing paperwork, I asked if giving my Mom morphine was the right call. She told me what I needed to hear, because in that moment that must have been routine for her, I was in a state of reassessing every single decision and choice that had been made that day. Not to assign blame or liability, but for reassurance. Once she left, my Dad, our neighbor, and I sat in the room to wait for the funeral home. 

I remember wondering how we were supposed to fill the silence, with idle conversation or nervous housework? Depleted of energy, I nodded off in the chair at her bedside while my brothers waited in the living room. My Dad opted for idle conversation with our neighbor, who politely obliged. It was after 2am when the people from the funeral home finally arrived. I noticed that the gentleman who handled everything was dressed in a three-piece suit. I wondered if that's why it took them so long to arrive--was this dude getting dressed? How much time did he spend searching for a matching tie and pocket square? Why did that annoy me so much?

(Now that I've recollected and reflected on that particular detail, I realize my resentment was misdirected. I should have been mindful that this young man took the time to look presentable because he was coming to our home to remove our heart...so instead of looking like he rolled out of bed in pajamas or dirty sweats, he got dressed in a suit. I don't know how many of these transfers he's done from private homes in the middle of the night, and I can't imagine what it must be like to have that job to perform at the most vulnerable moment in a family's pain. So, my apologies and gratitude, sir.) 

My first real meltdown took place a day or so later at the Marshall's. I shed a few tears the morning after, in the still quiet of being the only person awake in the house. But that felt like a normal reaction, especially as I stood in the doorway of the empty room where my Mom had been alive hours earlier. There was no need to get emotional during the meeting with the funeral home nor during the flurry of phone calls and visits. However that night (or maybe the next), one of the deacons at my church called to offer condolences, and her words loosened the faucet. Immediately after that call ended, I left to get some gas from the Costco, where there was a Marshall's nearby that was still open. I decided to pop inside to purchase the undergarments the funeral home had requested--just another errand that made sense to get done.

Except this was not just another errand, and I barely made it through the purchase before I was overcome by a torrent of ugly tears and hyper-ventilating. I don't know if I audibly screamed or if it was the echo of the thoughts in my head, but all I kept thinking was Dear Jesus why is this happening? Something told me to find my phone and call for help. Whether it was in response to a text she may have sent me, or because of the alphabetical arrangement of my contacts, I called one of my cousins. And though at the time, it felt like it was some random out of the blue choice, she was the exact person I needed to listen, calm my hurt, and provide me with assistance.  

It would be weeks before I would cry again (though not at the funeral), and months before another uncontrollable gusher of grief hit. Typically, my emotional collapses coincide with the date--each successive month on the day of or in proximity to the date of my mother's transition. But it could accompany any sentimental memory trigger as well. In March, it was taking the girls to see The Wiz on Broadway for Easter. In April, it was walking up the hill on Howard's campus towards Crampton Auditorium...and then almost getting shot the following weekend by some chick in a parking lot over some bullshit. In May, it was being back on Spelman's campus. The June episode was over my frustration with ageism after that Presidential debate debacle. Mid-July hit me with the double whammy of losing my dance teacher and first professional boss in the same week, punctuated by Joe Biden's bombshell exit from the Presidential race. In August, I just decided to lean into the fact that it had been six months, but also a year since my Mom had entered hospice.

Which brings me up to date. And the confession that it hasn't always been depression or fury, but a complicated range of everything, everywhere, all at once. In April it was the irrationality of standing my ground against the unknown, and then having to admit the absurdity of my recklessness in endangering the lives of my family. In July, it was taking an unexpected detour into the cemetery to locate my Mom's grave (which I did, easily) compelled by the anxiety and dread that I don't feel safe to confide my emotions with anyone but her. Last week, it was this profound sense that I am a fraud, a self-declared "Busy" Black Woman in name only as opposed to everyone else who can seemingly rebound after the death of their loved ones by throwing themselves into some meaningful distraction. 

So what the jobu tupaki is wrong with me?

Let's revisit the meltdown at the Marshall's, the memory of which I failed to suppress (in spite of my best efforts). I stood in front of a display of discounted panties and bras and had a panic attack as I attempted to figure out sizing, color, and if you can believe this even crossed my mind, COMFORT! My brain pondered the quandary of my Mom being buried in comfortable underwear, and that dear readers, is what caused me to nearly pass out in the dang parking lot before I found my way to the car. Then there was a similar experience at Target the following month. While lollygagging through the aisles, I was dismayed to learn that Target sold full Jockey brand slips superior in quality to whatever store brand camisole I found at JC Penny's. If only I had walked to the opposite end of our ghetto mall...but now it was too late. The hysteria of being haunted by my mother for the rest of my life over hasty shopping choices was real.

Before the funeral, I was irritated that the morticians chose the dark purple designer suit instead of one of the white dresses I indicated were my preferred options. Since I didn't expect for her to be wearing the suit, I didn't think to bring a shell (and my Mom always wore her suits with a shell). There was a scarf, but that was to accent one of the dresses. And instead of wearing the necklace I gave them, it was placed in her hand like a rosary even though she wasn't Catholic. I had to insist that they reapply her lipstick because there was NO WAY that I would have been content with her wearing pale pink gloss! In the end, my Mom was buried in her good suit, a scarf in place of a shell, some crappy slip I bought on sale from Pennys, and discounted underwear that may or may not have been the most comfortable option. 

If you are questioning why any of this matters, it is because if I didn't obsess and overthink things, who else would? I inherited her tendency to notice e-v-e-r-y-thing, and as my mother's only daughter, attention to her final details became the last meaningful act of caregiving I could render. 

It dawned on me that as I considered the length of time since my grandparents passed, I hope to remain alive for some unknown amount of time. One day, this could be my daughter. She could be mulling decisions about what to do with me since I'm not organized or morbid enough to leave instructions. I will have to trust her judgment knowing that this is the same child who likes to wear mixed matched shoes and clothes. Hopefully she doesn't get bogged down in the existential crisis of my ghost outfit the same way I got all twisted about my Mom's purple suit...

The comedian Kevin Fredericks posted this video about his grief at the loss of his brother, and I felt every word. Every one. Because death undoes. It takes reality and turns everything inside out. It makes you question the point of life. Why does it matter if I drink too much if I'm going to die anyway? Why do I need to make healthy life choices if some random chronic illness can come along and it won't matter that I exercised daily to prevent that very illness? What does it mean to be a woman of great intelligence and many talents, only to lose it all? Why accumulate all of this stuff, only to have it all given or thrown away by people who don't appreciate what it meant to me? What does it mean to be gone, forever? How long is forever?

Death takes an entire life and reduces it to a pile of fucking paperwork. 

I am so over this. I am ready for this era to end. Mind you, I'm not wishing for a resurrection like The Monkey's Paw scenario; instead, I would like to wake up one day like Pamela Ewing to find my Mom in the kitchen. Or maybe in a different dream, I will wake up at my Grandmother W's house and she's in her kitchen or my Grandfather is driving his station wagon while my other Grandmother is pruning the bushes in her yard. The fact that I got used to not seeing them for all of these years makes it that much more painful to imagine what the next few years without my mother might feel like. I hope not as hard as watching dementia slowly chip away at her for the last 15 years.

This is supposed to be cathartic...and in a way, it is since I hadn't verbalized any of this until now. I don't know if I would have the courage to reveal these thoughts to a therapist and I don't dare breathe a word of this to anyone else (no worries, they won't read it). When asked, I've been evasive. I've deflected. I've focused my energy on everything else but my feelings. I go into the room where she died every day to open the blinds, and I replace the flowers on the dresser at regular intervals. I haven't donated any of her belongings yet, but I have worn some of her clothes (and I imagine her snarky oh so you can wear a size 8 now, in response). To the extent that I haven't gotten on with my life, I have re-positioned it around my grief. She isn't gone, she just isn't here. She's no longer rendered mute or physically incapacitated by that terrible disease. And so long as I remain open and receptive to the idea of her presence in this more ethereal existence, then we can have the kind of conversations and interactions that were impossible those last years of her life. Maybe that's how I keep on living.

I suspect that this won't be the last time I write about this topic. Just a few months ago, I wasn't sure if I could ever return to writing, but here I am rediscovering my voice (it wavers and cracks, but I still hear it). I have watched several of my friends navigate this same journey through the years, and we all take different paths in learning how to readjust or realign with life after the death of a loved one. A large part of this process will be to redefine myself in the aftermath of 15 years of caregiving. That's longer than I've held any job. I don't regret that I took on the responsibility of caring for my Mom, as I would do it again. It was integral to my identity, part of what made my life so busy. Now I have rewrite, revise, and reimagine what it means to be someone other than Audrey's only daughter. 

Dreaming in Full Circles

This Busy Black Woman is feeling old y'all. I recently participated in a few local MLK Day activities, culminating in the parade here in DC for the first time in 40 years! Imma need to rest up for February because I am not as young as I was in this picture (somebody is going to catch that :) 

We've been doing MLK Day here in DC since I was a child, which was a long time ago. A lot has changed, but a lot hasn't. It is still cold AF in January, but thankfully the sun was out and it wasn't below 40 degrees. The parade route wasn't that long even though it still travels through the 'hood along MLK Avenue (down the SE side instead of the SW side). The hood itself has changed--we passed by a Starbucks, and that wasn't anywhere near here 40 years ago, let alone 5. Maybe I wasn't all that observant as a kid, but there were as many white people on the sidelines as spectators as there were cops, so that was also quite the change.

I have a dream that one day...little Black boys and Black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers. (1963)

Of course, the biggest change from 40 years ago is that with MLK Day celebrated as a local event well before it became a national holiday, it was held on January 15, his actual birthday, as opposed to the third Monday in January. So I am old enough to remember a time when there were no Black federal holidays; furthermore, because I grew up in a Chocolate City, I had no clue that there were Confederate holidays. Who knew that just over the bridge in the Commonwealth of Old Virginny they were celebrating Robert E. Lee as some kind of American hero (until just a few years ago)?

Put a pin in that for now. When I sat down to write initially, I was motivated by adrenaline, nostalgia, and pride. Adrenaline from the two miles of walking; nostalgia from reflecting on my past MLK parade participation; and pride that I am now passing on that legacy to the Kid. My initial thought was to post a few pictures and offer some commentary, but then I realized how this felt like a larger full circle moment, connecting my childhood memories to something that might serve as a guide for my daughter in the future. Ironically, we were supposed to be marching in a different capacity and role, but that fell through. Instead, we ended up falling in with her Girl Scout troop, which was an even better way to mark the occasion, so that definitely got me all in my feelings. 

Everybody can be great...because anybody can serve. (1968)

Our local MLK parade began in 1979 and it was considered a high honor for your school to be chosen to participate. From my recollection, most of the local high schools got to march, and a lucky few of the junior high and elementary schools were also invited. I do not recall the exact year that my elementary school was chosen, but it was a big deal. Our delegation consisted of the cheerleaders, pom-pom girls, drill team, and safety patrol. Now I have to be honest that technically, I was not actually in the parade that year because I wasn't old enough; however, I swear (and it is the honest to God truth) that I was at the parade! Not only was I there, but so was the King family, various local and national civil rights dignitaries, and a lot of celebrity activists, including the phenomenal Stevie Wonder*!

The official designation of the holiday was signed in 1983, and full observance began in 1986 when I was in middle school. It was only then that I began to understand that we had been marching and advocating for a lot more than just a day off from work and/or school. I had not realized that our annual MLK Day parade was actually a major lobbying event for several civil rights issues, such as calling for an end to apartheid in South Africa and for DC Statehood. When I started high school in the fall of 1986, it was an eye-opener to learn that implementing MLK Day into our school calendar had been a challenge, whereas tacking on snow days after a blizzard...

Change does not roll in on the wheels of inevitability but comes through continuous struggle. And so we must straighten our backs and work for our freedom. (1956)

Fast forward to the actual MLK Day Parade where I have vivid memories of participating, when I was in college. In the early days of this blog, I wrote about that experience here, and a few years later, someone posted this picture to Facebook that proves I was there. Pull out your readers and take a look at the caption:

If you're squinting to see me, I am wearing the third set of white go-go boots on the left. Somehow, I had forgotten that this had only been the 6th Annual MLK Day Parade in King's hometown of Atlanta although I'm pretty sure that I must have told everybody in the band how DC had its own parade for years. In addition to the other reasons already shared here, this parade was memorable because my older cousin BCW also marched with his college band, and I was so excited to call our Grandmother afterwards to tell her that I saw him. (However, his excitement to see me was tempered by the sight of me in that outfit, so we'll just leave it at that.)

All of those warm and fuzzy memories aside, I think it is interesting how some of my articulated concerns from 2011 about MLK Day becoming this Day of Service have been picked up by others. Perhaps it was inevitable that after 40 years, there would be some backlash over what the holiday should be and what it has become. For my part, I have evolved to see the service aspect as a good thing, especially if we make it a point to teach young people why the work itself is about more than the photos posted to social media. Yes, we should collect toiletries, socks, gloves, and snacks for the unhoused. But then we should also advocate for policies and programs to aid people in that kind of dire need. A warm pair of socks is no substitute for a warm place to sleep every night. Sure, get people to clean up the public parks and the sides of the highways, but then make sure everyone understands how that relates to Dr. King's work. Make sure that they see the connection to community beautification and MLK's famous quote about street sweepers, or more significantly how his last public protest involved elevating the dignity of all work, especially work deemed hard and undesirable.

Life's most persistent and urgent question is, 'What are you doing for others?' (1957)

Before his stroke in 2016, the Rev. Dr. Jeremiah Wright had a standing engagement to preach at Howard University every MLK Sunday and I would take my Mom as part of our official weekend of activities. I recall one of his most poignant sermons centered on the annual ritual where certain folks would intentionally misquote Dr. King, and in that masterful way that Black preachers often frame prophetic truths, this theme has stayed with me: Do not allow yourselves to be seduced by the convenience of the soundbite, lest we allow MLKs legacy be reduced to just a soundbite. You can probably guess what soundbite he was referring to...

Therefore, while it was great to leave the house for that prayer breakfast; to engage in civic-minded activities such as laying a wreath at the Memorial; to collect and donate stuff for charity; and then to participate in the parade, the work of honoring Dr. King must evolve. It needs to become more than linking arms to sing We Shall Overcome, calling out hypocrisy on social media, or writing think pieces about why all of these gestures are superficial. Forty years ago, when we were lobbying hostile political forces to designate this holiday, it was not so that y'all could spend every year congratulating yourselves on that accomplishment. Yes, please dedicate your day off to doing something meaningful other than shopping and TV binge watching, but also ask yourself what would MLK be doing?

This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. (1963)

Let's make a deal that if we keep the parades, peace walks, and the service component, we also must insist on more education and activism. There was a labor union marching behind the Girl Scouts and it was quite the moment when we were stopped in front of that Starbucks. Because we know the hood needs business investment, but must that also mean gentrification and displacement? In 40 years will my daughter be reminiscing about the neighborhood where the MLK Parade used to be held? And now that we've got elected officials throughout the country who are pushing back against inclusive curricula, will MLK Day become another culture war skirmish? Virginia may have abandoned its official celebration of Gen. Robert E. Lee and taken his statues down, but for how long? Because I predict the day will come when someone misuses a couple of King quotes to justify recoupling Lee and King for the sake of forgiveness and brotherhood:

Forgiveness is not an occasional act. It is a permanent attitude. (1962)
Hate is too great a burden to bear. I have decided to love. (1967)

Isn't that essentially the stance of some conservative commentators who argue that we have strayed far from their interpretation of MLK's dream? That they were only willing to go along with celebrating a gentle Black Messiah-like figure who forgave their parents and grandparents for their racism. Once we insisted on quoting the King who overturned tables in the temple by making demands for more than integrated coffee, we were asking for too much.

There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges. (1963)

Mind you, that quote was taken from the same speech where MLK shared his prophetic dream of building the beloved community. That community isn't the one where we build walls to keep America exclusive to only the few. It isn't where we criminalize parents for allowing their children to explore their own truths. And it certainly isn't some colorblind utopia where people justify their racism by defining merit to maintain their advantage in society. 

The fight for equality must be fought on many fronts--in the urban slums, in the sweat shops of the factories and fields. Our separate struggles are really one--a struggle for freedom, for dignity, and for humanity. MLK to Caesar Chavez in 1966

When we say that things have come full circle, it is with the belief that we have come back to a starting point. It is not to suggest that there has been no progress, but to signify how lessons or experiences from the past often have parallels to what we are currently facing. I began this with the idea that I had come full circle with my participation in local MLK Day Parades by now seeing my daughter participate. It appears so has our country--back to where we were 40 years ago with many of the same arguments and debates over the meaning of racial justice and progress. Most of the people who claim that we've made enough progress or that we've achieved the 'dream' were and still are on the wrong side of history. That will never change, so we who believe in freedom cannot rest (not even on MLK Day) until:

...[J]ustice rolls down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream. (1963)

* This is not footage from the MLK Parade, but from the 20th Anniversary of the 1963 March on Washington later that same year.

When Big Mama Dies

A few months back, the movie Soul Food (1997) was in the queue on one of the premium cable movie channels, which meant that for a few weeks, it aired every other night. Because it is one of those bad Black movies that I will stop and watch whenever, I got to see different parts of it a few times. In one of my FB groups, someone else must have done the same, and he started a thread about all of the ways we had misjudged the eldest sister, Teri, portrayed in the film by Vanessa L. Williams.

His shot across the bow--how it was time to have an adult conversation about how Teri was constantly mistreated by her ungrateful family. He argued that her bitterness was justified, and basically that Cousin Faith was lucky that Teri was too smart to actually kill her or whup her ass when she had the chance. He listed various other transgressions, and we had a great discussion of the many ways that her family had taken advantage of her, especially Big Mama Joseph, who presided over the entire dysfunctional mess. I mean, think about how eff'd up it is for your Mama to allow the dude who two-timed you with your younger sister to marry into your family and then eat dinner every Sunday without the constant threat of food poisoning hanging over his head? And that same Mama lets everybody treat you like the Joseph Family Building and Loan, even though she has a stash of cash she's been stockpiling in the house for years?

Yep, it's true. Big Mama Jo was terrible, yet we all cried when she died because that's what we're supposed to do when the family matriarch passes away. We're supposed to forget that she enabled a lot of unhealthy shit because she also was a kind and loving Mother/Grandmother/Auntie/Big Sister who fed all of the neighborhood stray cats. We have watched this movie for years and I have never seen anyone argue that maybe Teri was right to want to sell the house to get some of her money back from her family of freeloaders who were never going to treat her any differently anyway, so why not just be that bitch and finally break free?

The next time you watch that movie, tell me that your eyes have finally opened to see what I saw years ago, but didn't dare speak it lest I be branded a hater. Because I always thought the Joseph family was trash and that the depiction of Teri was too shrill and bitter as if she was just an upper-class snob instead of tired of their broke asses. (Hence why I deem it a bad Black movie, one that is problematic on many levels while still entertaining and watchable.)

At some point, I had an epiphany about another beloved figure in popular culture...I'm not naming anybody just yet, nor will I offer a list of the ways that she was just as bad as the fictional late Big Mama Jo. I will simply suggest that maybe now that she's dead, folks should look more objectively at the terrible shit she enabled and how that might have impacted various members of her family. 

Having lived through the death of a beloved family matriarch myself (around the same time Soul Food was released), I can attest that it blows a gigantic hole in the heart of the family that never refills. My extended family hasn't gathered for a joyous holiday since her death; instead, we have come together for funerals. And at each one, we all sit around at the repast and recall how great things were when we were younger and how we need to get together more often under better circumstances, and then another year passes. Somebody else dies, I skip past their name in my address book, and life goes on. 

Some of us chose to center our lives around a different matriarch. That could be our own mother, and/or some other woman whose mother-like aura has that same magnetic power to draw everyone to her for comfort and refuge. And like the Big Mamas that came before her, she does the best she can to keep her family and the assorted strays together, in spite of the bullshit that goes on in the background. She is polite to the new girlfriend who has replaced the daughter-in-law. She welcomes that troubled grandson who only comes around to borrow money, unannounced and at inopportune times, which she sends to him even though she has promised to stop. She cares for the babies of all the single unwedded women because she knows how hard it is, and she doesn't judge them for continuing to make bad choices with the wrong men. She has co-signed bad loans, hidden unmentionable contraband in her home, listened to every sob story, cooked a lot of comfort food, and keeps on giving and loving for as long as the Good Lord allows.

I want to be clear that I am not poking fun at Big Mama (considering the obvious connection to being a Busy Black Woman), so on general principle, she is not a bad person. She's just very complicated like all human beings. She's giving and loving and strong-willed, which are qualities that not enough people seem to understand these days. If some of y'all had been raised by a Big Mama, I wonder if you would still be such unrepentant jerks. (On second thought, she's the reason why some of y'all are what you are, so carry on.) Some of you reading this are already Big Mamas or in-training without even realizing it. 

I happened to be watching A Raisin in the Sun (2008) recently, and because it is the version with Diddy, it definitely qualifies as a bad Black movie. Watching a few of my favorite scenes reinterpreted by Phylicia Rashad, I saw some of the conflict with different eyes. Her Lena Younger has all of the same overbearing Big Mama presence that made Claudia McNeil so iconic and definitive in this role for so long. However, I noticed how Lena treats her daughter-in-law Ruth (Audra McDonald) like the only other responsible adult in the household. In essence, as her equal, and I missed that for years. As such, it makes so much sense to me why Walter Lee is so resentful and spiteful to his wife as she is the Big Mama in-training. (No worries, we're not going to examine the mother-son relationship nor how it was understood to be a point of contention between role originators Sidney Poitier and McNeil.)

However, the tension captured in the play/movie highlights how Big Mamas occupy a larger-than-life presence in the lives of others, especially their children. Walter Lee Younger is a 35 year-old man whose Big Mama Lena still makes all of the decisions for the family. In Soul Food, Big Mama Jo looms over family conflicts even as she is comatose and dying. Another Big Mama exercised her prerogative to meddle in the lives of her children and grandchildren, which is kind of why everything is so messy right now. Big Mamas mean well, but remember that saying about the road to hell and good intentions?

Like I said, Big Mamas are human. While we should honor and revere them, there comes a point when Big Mama's word isn't sufficient to resolve our problems. While her home can be a place of refuge, it can also become a cage. She can feed our souls, but sometimes she feeds our bad habits and unhealthy indulgences. Big Mama Lena Younger expects her son to act like a man but constantly berated him like a child. Big Mama Jo was clearly a great cook, but she didn't adopt healthier alternatives and it killed her. That other Big Mama kept silent when her voice was needed to silence the viciousness that was aimed at the women who married into her family (probably because the negativity heaped on them contrasted with the praise and honor reserved for her).

Because Big Mama is keenly aware that her time on earth is finite, she often selects an heir. And let me tell you, whew! Sometimes the choice is easy because most women don't want the trouble. It's obvious that Beneatha Younger has dreams beyond taking care of a family. Part of the enmity between two of the Joseph sisters was about who was Big Mama's favorite and heir apparent. Although Teri expected to inherit the mantle with everyone financially indebted to her, second-born Maxine steals earns the role by rekindling the weekly Sunday dinners. In that other family, the lines of succession having already been established, the idea that there was even the need for conflict is one that appears to have been manufactured to sell newspapers...

So, if you hadn't guessed which dearly departed Big Mama I keep alluding to, well here is one last clue: she was THEE Big Mama, even though nobody would have dared to call her that in life. But maybe if the world had regarded her with a little more humanity, then perhaps we wouldn't feel compelled to take sides and make demands regarding what is a very public after-the-funeral squabble that has been going on for these past few months.

I mean, why else do average people in these tweets think they should have a say as to whether one of her grandsons ought to be disinherited because they don't like his wife? Because that is the gist of this--y'all don't like his American wife and feel some kind of way that she didn't much care for how she was mistreated by the British tabloids. So she did what every other self-respecting celebrity does when they want to tell their side of things--she bore her soul to Rich Auntie Oprah.

Which, by the way, is exactly what happens when one feels that their appeals to Big Mama have gone unheard. Somehow, as if out of thin air, a Rich Auntie appears to sprinkle in her special blend of chaos and stir the pot. Mind you, she isn't a rival to Big Mama, just another powerful woman who serves her own important function in family drama. She knows everything Big Mama knows, but with neither the time nor interest in managing petty family business. She's like the therapist who guides you to the breakthrough and then sends you on your way to do the work of fixing your own life.

For all of this self-righteous British indignation over that Oprah interview, it isn't as if she hadn't taken on this same role in this same family in the past. Sarah Fergusen, Duchess of York, gave an interview to Oprah a year before Princess Diana died (and apparently Di was ready to spill the tea as well). And if you pay close attention to that clip, a lot of the stuff Fergie revealed tracks with everything Meghan has said about living in the royal fishbowl and braving the British tabloids (minus the racism). This notion that Meghan should have been made of sterner stuff is utter bullocks considering how the press not only helped to destroy Fergie's marriage and reputation, but some of you forget that Princess Diana developed bulimia as a result of her unhappiness in the Firm.

If Big Mama could have had her turn on the Oprah confessional couch, I'm guessing there is a LOT she would have to say about every last person, from the minor royals to the groupies hanging about the palace. I'm convinced part of the reason she never did was because talking shit about your kids in public is the one thing Big Mamas never do. It is against the Big Mama code, so now you know why she never banished her pedophile son. However, there is a LOT this Big Mama should have done differently, beginning with her failure to protect these unsuspecting women from the tabloid trolls and press ogres. But there's no point in condemning her now that she's dead. Instead, the living need to learn from her mistakes and make better choices. 

In full disclosure, I have yet to watch their Netflix special, pre-order his memoir, listen to her podcast, or binge-watch any episodes of The Crown, so before anyone accuses me of being unabashedly Team Them or Anti-Royal, that isn't the point. This is all about a family and the messy bits that get exposed when Big Mama dies. Since the Royals are too dignified to be caught fighting in the church parking lot after the repast, they dispatched their PR teams to trade barbs. If these were medieval times, William and Harry might have been jousting.

There was a line in The Queen (2006) wherein the fictional Prince Philip referred to all of the drama in the aftermath of Diana's death as a bunch of hysterics who needed help processing their grief, and well...

That 'keep calm and carry on' stuff is a great slogan to put on tee shirts and mugs, but a lot harder to follow in real life in the midst of conflicting emotions and while coming to terms with the inevitability of one's own mortality. Big Mama is no longer around to fix this mess. Somebody needs to man up and not wait until his coronation to declare that certain aspects of his family's lives are off limits. The same press establishment harassed your ex-wife to death, disparaged the physical appearance of your current wife, and referred to your newborn grandson as a chimpanzee. Your majesty, when do the beheadings start??!! Most of the people who claim to care so much about the Firm aren't your friends, Sir, they are friendly to the Crown because it benefits them. Public opinion is fickle and unpredictable, so if it sells more papers, they will rebel like American colonists. Furthermore, when you opened that cage and let those birds fly free, accept that you gave up the right to control their song.

Here are a final few words of benediction over the other Big Mamas, lest I leave the impression that I thought they had more bad qualities than good. Big Mama Younger was right to be suspicious of her son's proposed business venture, but her ability to forgive and ultimately support his other decisions allowed him to feel the dignity he felt had been so elusive. Mama Jo's insistence on keeping her family unified at all costs was something of a double-edged sword, but in the end, it proved to be wise and fortuitous. And hopefully Teri learned that being the Rich Auntie isn't a lesser position in the family--it just comes with a lot less responsibility. To anyone reading this who is herself a Big Mama or one in-training, you already know how much we love you.

Now here's my best hood-Rich Auntie advice to our nephew Prince Harry (even though he didn't ask). Move on. Keep sending Christmas cards and exchange gifts among the children and give your brother a heads up when you're going to be on the same continent. Otherwise, live your best life and perform whatever duties you owe to your Dad as King. You have another Big Mama in your corner for whom it is no imposition or breach of protocol for her to protect your babies and wife. She would gladly lay down her very life for you as well, so let those people across the pond worry about whatever it is the royals do. Big Mama Doria will be here for you as long as the Good Lord allows.