extended family
All about how to stay connected, strengthen ties and talk politics with your big, happy extended family.
My Granny Packed A Pistol
My true name is...well, we don't know each other well enough for that. Do we? So, in the interest of "getting to know one another," let's grab the rudder of the SS Friendship and take a different tack. My given name is DeRicki Johnson. I know it is an unusual name...strange...because, whenever I sign up for things like email accounts at Yahoo, MSN, or Google, I can always use my name without having to accept some dumb automatically generated alias like "DeRicki4889". The first time I ever tried it, Yahoo was claiming 25 million subscribers, and yet it took my first name for an email address just as cool as if I was present for the birth of the Internet, or something. Don't bother trying to email me at that address, though, I dumped it years ago. As far as I know, "DeRicki" is not a family name. I think my given name was just a whim of the person who named me. Maybe that would be a good way to tell you about myself. I will tell you a story about my grandmother and me. My late grandmother is the one who named me. My mom had me when she was still in high school. She joined the army just after I was born. Back in those days it was quite scandalous to have a child out of wedlock, so my grandmother, Maudie, and her current husband, Albert Johnson, adopted me...rescuing me from the shame and stigma of being raised a "bastid chile." I have never met my natural father. He is supposed to have been some itinerant civil rights worker who passed through Fort Worth with a group on a quest to win for blacks the same rights as white Americans. I have been told his last name was Christmas. I don't think I have ever been told the whole truth about my birth father…so, I am not really sure about this. Don't get me wrong. I don't hate mom or phantom dad...if it were not for their bit of unsanctioned connubial felicity, well, I wouldn't be here. Only God can judge her, him, or me. And that's all I'm going to say about that... As a young woman, my grandma moved to the big city of Fort Worth, TX from the small country town of Tyler back in the 1930s, and immediately began working to earn money to bring her family to the big city, one person at a time. I loved and feared my granny. She was a larger-than-life person. I recalled her as an independent woman, tough but fair, who carried a .38 caliber pistol in her purse until the day she died. Some time I might tell you about my adventure getting caught going through the metal detector at DFW airport with granny and her "loaded" purse. But, as they say, "that's a story for another day." Apparently, she wasn't afraid to use her pistol, either. Family legend has it that she shot one of her philandering husbands in the ass, while he attempted to flee through downtown Fort Worth after being caught in a somewhat compromising, not to mention, perverted, position. I never met that husband, but I have always admired his quick thinking...after all; getting shot in the butt at least meant he had the clarity of mind to RUN! Grandma Maudie married four times. Her fourth husband, Albert Johnson, is the one who gave me his name. Albert was younger than my granny, and I remember him as being very, very cool. He always had the dopest rides, with the thumping-est stereos. As a young boy growinng toward puberty, the high point of any visit back to Fort Worth was cruising the hoods as grandpa Albert holler'd at various neighborhood notables from behind the wheel of his latest chariot sublime. Beep-beep. My grandmother raised me until I was 5, and my mom, who was married with two children by then, came back for me. During those 5 years my grandmother taught me many things, one of her most clearly remembered lessons was the importance of being independent. The clearest memory I have of one of her lessons on "independence" is one that occurred on a partcularly warm and sunny North Texas summer afternoon. The lesson came after one my frequent rides to the grocery store with granny. I was perhaps four years old at the time - yet too young to realize what a rare accomplishment it was for an African American to own a car. Come to think of it - yet too young to realize I was African-American, for that matter. We - my granny and I - had a well established tradition, a ritual, that at the end of such excursions Granny would come around to my door and open it. Then I would follow her into the house. But, this particular day was different. This fateful day, she turned to me, her arms full of groceries, and said, "You're old enough to open your own door. Open it and come inside." Wha-what...WHAT? Open my own door? Was this woman flirting with insanity? I was outraged at this seemingly cruel and unfair breach of established protocol, and let her know it by promptly throwing a temper tantrum. From her retreating back came her reply, "Crying won't help. Come inside when you figure it out." The audacity of this woman, I thought. Well, maybe not in those exact words…after all, I was only four. But, I was plenty shocked and angry. So, I stubbornly jumped up and down in my seat and turned up the tears; managing, after some time, to cry myself asleep. When I awoke, the sun had set. A gentle evening breeze rustled the leaves in the yard's great old trees. The back door's screen glowed with a warm yellow light, and soft adult voices murmured through the open kitchen door. When I awoke, I was different. I had cried myself to sleep, a baby. But, I awoke a self-reliant human being. When I awoke, I opened the car door and I walked to the house. I was hungry. -dj
By DeRicki Johnson6 years ago in Families
Nonni Exuded Peace and Contentment while having Plenty of Smarts
“Two years ago, this shy little miss came to us directly from Italy. She seemed to fit right in, and has distinguished her stay in Classical High School by her good scholarship. We who are acquainted with know her as an excellent little friend, always ready to give any help she can when it is asked for, yet too shy to intrude. Anna says she likes America, and our school very much but some day hopes to return to her beloved native Italy.” So says Nonni’s high school yearbook, and it sounds about right. I said as much at her wake in 2007
By Rich Monetti6 years ago in Families
A Little Map of Hope
Picture this: You’ve just turned eighteen. You’re wearing a long red shirt with a new pair of tight jeans that you very consciously entrusted with boosting your confidence for the day. After years of dreaming about it, you worked your way to reaching a destination that is presently 1,697.41 miles away from home, and you think you’re ready. You think you’re ready in that petulant way teenagers always swear they are… but when your mami implies that she’s finally leaving the room, the fact that you’re not suddenly sneaks up on you.
By Alejandra Rivera Flaviá6 years ago in Families
The Virtuous - The Standard of A Good Pupil
The Virtuous is inspired by my mum and other inspiring women also play their part in the film’s development. At different moments in life certain people impact on one’s life and become important, and equally one is never fully aware how important others are until much later, including perhaps members of one’s own family. To some people promises are made, confidences and dreams are shared and both good and bad times had. With others’ perhaps battles have been fought. There are a few relationships in which something unique has transpired and a bond has been cemented, where two become one. We all experience many encounters and the world continues on its course, but the one thing that for me that has remained constant, though I didn’t always know or appreciate it, is the unconditional love I have from my mother.
By Ice cheung 6 years ago in Families
What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger
I was an accident but not a mistake. As a young a teenager, my mother fooled around with a neighborhood boy and their dalliance produced a child. As I typed that word “dalliance,” I thought about the vocabulary, language proficiency and communication skills that propelled me from poverty to prosperity. Reflecting on my early beginnings gives me a reason to thank my mother for her strength and sacrifices.
By Karin Hopkins6 years ago in Families
Never let the society tell your worth!
This story of an inspirational woman in my life is extremely close to my heart since it belongs to my aunt. We belong to a very humble background, where woman are only encouraged to settle down as early as possible and men are the sole bread-winners of the family. Its just how the culture has embedded this trend within our society, since the beginning. But throughout my story, you'll realize why shattering the norms is important in today's society and why ones inability to achieve their dreams shouldn't be --- " don't do it since it goes against the cultural norms and since you'll be a shame to the family's honour"
By kulsoom khalid6 years ago in Families
Auntie with a capital A
There is no shortage of women who inspire me that I could write about. My mother, who raised three children on her own earning success in her career and raising strong resilient children. My sister who fought all odds and woke up from a coma that should have killed her or my friend who gave up her favourite foods such as steak and eventually gravy because her empathy for all living things was bigger than satisfying her taste buds or her meat loving husband.
By Kimberly Peace6 years ago in Families
The Family You Choose
So I really did think a long time about this. My mother is a woman who broke the mold on single mothers. Raising her children and then some, after the seperations from our fathers. Who wouldn’t want look to a role model like her, that worked the 80hr weeks for baseball fees, and pointe shoes. Or my grandmother who fought through custodial rights (which was unheard of at that time) and the kidnapping of her only child or her battles with end stage cancer (she’s doing well currently). I’ve had more than my share of strong, empowered female role models. But in the end, I was left with one person. I met Yvette Baker about 4 years ago, and we could say that I was very nervous at first. I was the new girlfriend. A stranger from another state and not always every mother’s dream girl for their son. So there I was in an outfit that was obviously picked out to make an impression. I turned on the southern charm most people joke about and before I knew it we had kicked up a kinship that was more like a lifetime instead of a few years. The lead up to this meeting was proceeded by one of the worst years of my life. I had walked away from the home I had always known for good. Said goodbye to my nephew, who I had helped raise from birth. He was my rainbow after a long period of infertility. My mother who had become my best friend and confidant. I left for a place that at the time left everyone scratching their heads (Iowa). I was suffocating in that town and had finally got those wide open spaces all the songs promise. But do you know what keeps people from moving back home? Healthy roots? Like when you transfer a plant from one pot to another. You have to make sure the ability for new roots to grow is a possibility. And I was primed by the love of my own family. But it’s not always so easy, but people like Yvette make it seem as easy as watering a Peace Lilly. It’s like having another mother without all the relived memories of how much of an asshole you were at 16. When my grandmother was first diagnosed with the cancer. I couldn’t find it in myself to cry to my mother. She had so much on her plate and who was I to ask for a shoulder when she needed one way more. Yvette had been through this with her sister. So I thought if anyone could understand how I felt she would. And I was right, she did know how I feel and listened to every fear, helped me work out when was the right time to come home. In the end when I left we hugged and it was a hug that lifted the rain clouds. Made it easier to think more clearly. She lol helped me search flights. Loaned me a suit case, and made sure to feed the boyfriend while I was gone. She has made every holiday feel as inviting as home. I will find myself coming early to lend a hand to cook, or wrap a present, or bake cookies like I use to with my own mother. Did I mention ethe grandmother she became to my son from a previous relationship? Picking him up from an evening with Grandma Baker is always followed with regalings of how they watched Godzilla, and popcorn or pizza. Yvette is the type of Grandma that really listens to what you say you want for your birthday. She is a well of fashion advice. I’ve come to believe that before I met Yvette, that I never felt fully put together and had told her on multiple occasions how silly I always felt dressed up cause it just always seemed off. It’s gotten to the point where I’ve thought to just give her money and let her pick out my clothes cause I always look fly as hell when she’s selecting. Like the stunning dress she picked for my brother in laws wedding. When in Ulta together we sometimes make eye contact and know we aren’t leaving without dropping an easy $50. She’s never slighted me once for moaning about Thad not taking the trash out. It’s always met with understanding and the compassion of someone who has been there. I joke with Thad, that he doesn’t have to worry about me leaving cause I love his mom too much, and he makes jokes about how I’m the favorite child. There’s never a rush to leave, when I pop in for a chat or to love the puppies. How could you not nominate a woman like Yvette Baker? A woman who redefined what it is to be a mother-in-law. No longer are we stuck in the past of dreading a call from the in-laws. Now I look into a future where my family has grown, and will continue to, with the births of nephews, the weddings of brothers, and maybe a few puppies being adopted. Who could have ever known how much admiration would have been born on the day Yvette Baker got to meet her youngest son’s new girlfriend. I love you, Yvette, for all the years of love and support. I only hope one day I can return the favor.
By Sarah Peterson6 years ago in Families
