A tribute to the sheroes in my life

The women in my family who nurtured and supported me were the inspiration for this blog, and later, my podcast, dedicated to Black women.

They were domestic workers, office workers, homemakers, and small business owners. Several married more than once. They were Baptist, African Episcopal Methodist (AME), Seventh Day Adventists, and Catholic. They survived unhappy marriages, abandonment, tragic losses, and unfulfilled dreams, yet endured.

They exemplified resourcefulness, perseverance, and self-respect despite living under Jim Crow laws in the South and under sexist and racist policies up North.

They are my sheroes, and I honor them here.

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 Although I was born in the Bronx, New York, and raised in Harlem, my family has deep roots in Florida and Louisiana.

My paternal grandmother, Deallean “Mama Dee” (Porciau) Evans, was born, raised, and married (to her first husband) in Pointe Coupee Parish, New Orleans; my maternal grandmother, Juanita (Gary) Staggers was born in Jacksonville, Florida.

Sadly, I know nothing about their early years, upbringing, or education, and regret never having asked about their life experiences when I became an adult. My recollections of them center around what I saw growing up.

Mama Dee was primarily a stay-at-home spouse, who occasionally ironed shirts in the Chinese laundry next to her apartment building at 2550 Seventh Avenue in West Harlem.

Her priority, however, was the needs of her second husband, Nathan “Papa Nat” Evans, whose dinner was on the table every day promptly at 6 PM. She believed that “A man gives 25 percent to a marriage, but the wife, 75 percent.” (Advice that I never honestly took to heart.)

As a young girl, whenever I spent the night at her fourth-floor walkup apartment, the routine was unchanging: Eat breakfast, sit on the stoop, and chat with other residents and neighborhood folk. In the afternoon, it was washup time, lunch, and naptime. Later, we listened to soap operas (“Stella Dallas”) while she prepared dinner. After dinner, bath time, evening radio programs (“The Shadow,” “Suspense,” “Perry Mason”), and bedtime (for me) by 8PM.

Mama Dee provided me with a stable, loving environment that created lasting childhood memories, which I cherish today.

My maternal grandmother, Juanita (as my sister, Terri, and I called her), worked for many years as a domestic worker in the home of a white family in Summit, New Jersey, and held a deep affection for the family, who reciprocated that feeling.

Tall, light skinned, and amply built, she possessed a regal air and was always impeccably dressed, down to her white gloves and pillbox hats.

I never realized the depth of Juanita’s intellectual curiosity and wide-ranging interests until after she died. Rummaging through the large, ubiquitous trunk situated at the foot of her bed in the house that she shared with my mother, I marveled at her eclectic collection.

That trunk housed old issues of magazines (e.g., Sail, McCalls, Gourmet, Ebony, and Soap Opera Digest), books by well-known authors, including John Le Carre, Alex Hailey, Xavier Hollander, and Gustav Flaubert, and assorted memorabilia (e.g., four purses with pennies, coupons, short stories, health articles, newspaper clippings, and jewelry).

As a voracious consumer of information, I firmly believe that I inherited her inquisiive genes.

Catherine Rosebud “Kitty” Staggers Johnson (my mom)

My mother was born in Ocala, FL, December 24, 1920, and for much of her childhood lived with her Aunt Willie and Uncle Jimmy (Jaunita’s brother) in Philadelphia. Mother often reminisced about her uncle taking her to the New Year’s Day Mummers Parade, a celebration featuring string bands, elaborate costumes, skits, and performances

Despite a happy life in Philly, my mother longed to be in New York with her parents although they had separated.

It took years for me to appreciate this remarkable woman who endured a rape (that she spoke of late in her life), an unhappy teenage marriage to my father, Joseph, a missed opportunity to pursue a modeling career, a second troubled marriage, and unfulfilled creative yearnings.

Independent and resourceful, she had a sharp-edged sense of humor.

Mother loved fashion. In her obituary, I wrote, “(she) loved the dramatic: earrings were never too big, rings never too many, and clothes never too bold. Such was her creativity that she designed and sewed outfits for herself as well as for fashion shows or productions at work, church, or senior centers. Eventually, (she) discovered thrift shops. To display her finds, she founded CLANG Productions, featuring male and female senior models. In 1995, Mom graduated from the Unique Modeling School in Philadelphia.” 

After a knifepoint robbery in the elevator of her apartment building in New York, Mom opted to relocate to Philadelphia, where she purchased a house, and learned to drive. She enjoyed an active social life. She was a member of Les Chere Grandmeres social club, and served two terms as president of the Women’s Auxiliary at the Capt. William Slowe Post #3090 in Philadelphia.

A role model for her granddaughters and great-granddaughters—two of whom bear her name—she rose above life’s challenges with grace.

Her legacy, however, was her zest for life; she never missed an opportunity to jump on the dance floor or snap her fingers to a Motown hit. 

I hold dear the support she freely offered throughout my life’s challenges.

Through sharing stories with my granddaughters over the years, I came to appreciate the ingenuity, enterprising spirit, and wisdom of other women who were part of my life story,

Janie (Harbin) Gary (maternal great-grandmother)

I have no childhood memories of my great-grandmother, Janie, who was born June 12, 1876, in Gainesville, FL.

In the only photo that I have of her as an older woman, she is seated in a tall, ornately carved wooden chair with a brocade backing; her dark hair is parted down the middle and pulled back. She wears a round-collared white blouse with a double strand of pearls under a collarless floral top. She is clutching what could be a Bible in one of her strong, capable hands. Janie stares unsmiling at the camera. Her face showing hints of Native American blood. (I recall being told that our bloodline traces to the Blackfoot or Blackfeet Nation but have no way of verifying this.) Although a diminutive in stature, her portrait reflects an indomitable strength.

As self-appointed family historian, I came across a reference to her in the Bartz Gainesville Directory, 1905-1906 edition: “Gary, W. blacksmith, w. Janie-866 N. Garden.” She would have been 27 years old, and I imagine, living with my great grandfather, Wister Gary (whose name I carry, but with an “A”), and their children, Thomas, Catherine, and Juanita.

I have collected the names of relatives that Jaunita spoke about who are somehow related to Janie, but I am not able to determine their relationships with her. Were some of them her children from another marriage, before or after her marriage to Wister? Were “the Walkers” her parents? Was “Uncle Solomon” a sibling or her child?

Sadly, family members who might have shed light on these relationships have passed on, but I continue my research.

Mary (Brown) Williams Staggers (paternal great-grandmother mother)

Until several years ago, I knew nothing about Mama Mary; I have since learned that she survived “abandonment” by my biological great-grandfather, Ed Williams, with whom she bore three children, a son, Augustus Porter, and two daughters, Willie and Walter.

Aunt Willie said that her father left Jacksonville to find work in Ocala, but never returned. Why he did not return remains a family mystery. Did he abandon his family? Did he meet with foul play? I can only imagine the heartbreak and shame that Mama Mary endured.

Eventually, she married Peter Staggers, described in an old Ocala directory of”noteworthy citizens” as “… a paper-hanger-painter and interior designer … who built … the ‘Wonder Home’ that won a blue ribbon for interior design.

According to Aunt Willie, despite their comfortable lifestyle, my grandfather Augustus, ran away from home as a teenager to escape a turbulent relationship with his stepfather.

Once again, Mama Mary faced a difficult marital experience. Did she stay in the marriage or leave? I don’t know.

What I do know is that she survived until her death at age 74.

Victoria Johnson or “Mama Vickie” (my paternal great-great grandmother)

Mama Vickie was born in New Orleans, LA, and according to family legend ran a successful brothel and restaurant that afforded her the wealth to send my father, and his sister, Vivian, to school in a chauffeur-driven car.

As a small child, I witnessed Mama Vickie’s devotion to Jesus Christ. I often accompanied her to St. Aloysius Church, where we would kneel and pray before an oversized crucifix located at the front of the church near the altar. At home, she burned votive candles before statues of Jesus and Mary on a wall-mounted altar.

In my childhood memory, she seemed to possess the ability to communicate with animals. I recall sitting on her lap—at age five or six-- in the cramped kitchen of her first-floor railroad apartment on West 140th Street in Harlem--while she admonished several mice/rats sitting at her feet to, “leave my grandchild alone.” Another time, she gently spoke to a delivery wagon horse that had collapsed outside her building. I have no idea what she whispered, but the horse suddenly recovered and stood up.

Did these incidents really happen or did I imagine them? Hmmm?

Whatever the truth, I know that I am lucky to have experienced her quiet strength, nurturing warmth, and deep spirituality, traits that I try to emulate in my life.

Vivien Thompson or Auntie Vee”

Auntie Vee was a born adventuress, who traveled the world with her husband, Uncle Tommy, and turned her love for travel into an at-home travel business.

That self-confidence led her to introduce her children, Erle, and Vicki, as well as her nieces and nephews, to activities once primarily connected to whites, such as skiing. At her second home in Silver Lake, NJ, my cousin, Erle, and I spent hours exploring the wooded area around the house. It was here that I developed my love for the outdoors.

Auntie Vee’s superpower was her ability, and willingness, to engage in conversation with anyone—white or Black. She made fast friends wherever she went.

She was also extremely practical in matters of finance and would urge me to seek jobs that offered excellent benefits. (I appreciated the advice but chose to follow my passion for writing into a career in journalism.)

In a family photo, a pretty, well-dressed Auntie Vee, and young Erle, sit for an interview with Joe “The Brown Bomber” Louis, world heavyweight champion (1937-1949), for the New York Amsterdam News. Yet another example of her versatility. Ironically, years later, I would work for the same Black newspaper as assistant editor.

Auntie Vee introduced me to persons and places outside of the community that I grew up in. Such experiences proved invaluable for me as a journalist whose career entailed encounters with all strata of society.

Pauline Pratt or “Nanny” (paternal great aunt)

Nanny, Mama Vicki’s daughter, inherited her mother’s taste for the good life. A short, dark-skinned woman with gold caps on some of her front teeth, she was chauffeured around Harlem in her Cadillac—a new one every year--to manage her affairs. I never knew her to hold a job. Her income, I assume, was derived from renting rooms in her three-story brownstone at 253 West 131st Street.

During WWII, Nanny hosted parties and sold drinks in the brownstone’s renovated basement (where I celebrated my sixteenth birthday).

“253” bustled with the comings and goings of boarders, family, friends, and number runners. (I couldn’t tell you if Nanny played the numbers or collected money for them.)

She seldom, if ever, cooked. Her husband, Uncle Joe Pratt, a chef, and Mama Vicki or Mama Dee often prepared Louisiana staples such as gumbo, a savory stew of seafood, meats, okra, onions, and bell peppers. Her house was where family gathered on New Year’s Eve for food and prayer.

The first woman of independent means that I knew of, I admire my great aunt’s financial acumen.

Geraldine (“Gerri”) Johnson (aunt)

Gerri, the daughter of a young New Orleans woman who died of illness, was adopted (either by Nanny or Mama Vicki); she was a major influence in my life.

By the time I was an adult, Gerri had survived a period of drug abuse and prostitution, and turned her life over to the Lord.

She often spoke of communicating with the spirits of deceased relatives or friends, including those around me, such as my father and a Native American male.

In her senior years, Gerri found a congregation in New Jersey comprised of others who shared her gift.

During one of darkest periods of my personal life, her counsel and support sustained me; she believed in me wholeheartedly and encouraged me to love and believe in myself.

When she moved out of state, we talked frequently by phone about family, health concerns, and spiritual matters. I cherished our relationship for many reasons, but especially because her spiritual insights deepened my belief in and devotion to God.

Willie Jackson or “Aunt Willie” (great aunt) and Orastine Bolden or” Tanté Bub” (great-great aunt)

Although neither Aunt Willie nor Tanté Bub played significant roles in my childhood, I did spend time with each of them at least once.

On one occasion, Terri and I spent the night with Aunt Willie and her husband, Uncle Jimmy, in Queens, NY, where they sold candy and other items from their storefront located beneath their building.

The last time I saw my elderly Aunt Willie was when I traveled with Mom and my stepfather to visit her in Ocala. While there, she talked about growing up female in the South and among other stories, told me of her molestation by a male relative.

However, what sticks with me most is her admonition to “always trust in Jesus. He’ll never let you down.” (Advice I still grapple with.)

Tanté Bub lived in Chicago but owned a brownstone on West 138th Street along Striver’s Row, which she visited on trips to New York. (I have no information about her income.) Like Mama Vicki, her mother, and Nanny, her sister, she employed a chauffeur.

I have a vague recollection of Tanté Bub taking me to Riverview Amusement Park, during a childhood trip with Nanny (?) to the Windy City.

Aunt Willie and Tanté Bub shared comfortable lifestyles, an accomplishment for Black women in the 1940s and 1950s.

A few words …

While these women are special to me, their struggles and accomplishments are not unique. Generations of Black women in America have overcome brutalization (during slavery), marginalization, and demonization that persists today under what Rev. Dr. Pauli Murray, Episcopal priest, legal scholar, and author termed, “Jane Crow.”

In a 2021 article, Antonio Ingram stated, “Murray explained (that), ‘Black women, historically, have been doubly victimized by the twin immoralities of Jim Crow and Jane Crow…Black women, faced with these dual barriers, have often found that sex bias is more formidable than racial bias.’”

Still, we stand tall, we survive, and we thrive despite the odds.

My hope is that my journey will inspire future generations to continue the march forward.

 Photo: Victoria “Mama Vickie” Johnson (date unknown)