I’m not a socialist or feminist and never thought of myself as either of these. Never found myself on a blacklist, the FBIs Most Wanted List or serving or working in a prison, though I never know what may be in store for me. I don’t advocate lesbianism or atheism, but Angela Y. Davis has been associated with all these, and she is my shero.
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Me & my best friend Nichole wearing t-shirts she designed: Walk by Faith and Fear Less, Hope More
We always got carded in high school, my sister, Sharon, and me, not because we were trying to buy drinks or get into the club but because of our love for each other. People couldn’t believe we were sisters so we had to show them our driver’s licenses to prove that we lived in the same home. They saw that our love was refreshing and ran deep, like ever flowing springs beyond a desert. This love quenches my thirst for laughter, a safe space, and a reality check, and makes me okay with being put in check if need be. This love is between me and the Rev. Sharon D. Moore, my biological sister and very best friend.
At one time I had a problem saying that she was my very best friend because I have a group of women who I consider my best friends. But beyond biology, when I consider our history and the constancy of our intimacy, I am compelled to show you our identification. She’s my confidante and my giggle girl; we can talk and laugh for hours and never want the time to end. She is total comfort. But this comfort has been steady coming, finally arriving as we have both grown in the Lord and long to treat each other like He does. Before this, we had a few issues. Like many siblings, there was some rivalry, never jealousy about looks or positions. All I remember is that we fought because she liked to wear my stuff and I wasn’t having that. But that period was short-lived. We became allies in 1980 when I was 11 and she was 12. We made a pact not to tell my mom that we fought, an act that would cancel our long-planned trip to California. We stopped fighting then but that’s when Sharon consistently began to fight for me.
She fought my fear: When I got my period, she counseled and coached me through, stroking my knee as she knelt next to me as I sat on the toilet. In junior high she pledged to protect me from the gangs that plagued our schools. She let me hang with her and her friends, 8th and 9th graders no one dared to mess with.
She fought my “loneliness”: I’ve always had my own group of friends and so has she, but if she thought that she was going to have more fun than I she would beg me to join her. And sometimes I just wanted to stay home, but she would choose my outfit and insist I go out with her.
She fought my obsessions and depressions: The times I wondered about my looks, wondered if I had what it took to catch a boy, she was there building me up. She told me about my beauty, what others should see and what was inside me. Sharon never let me think less of myself, only the best of myself and the best for myself.
She fought for my success: Sharon fighting my fear, loneliness, obsessions and depressions clearly helped to make me successful, but she has been on my team helping me fulfill my dreams. She was my campaign manager for my senior class secretary run, promotes my writing by telling people of my service and supports my preaching and teaching by attending and inviting me to speak at engagements. Sharon’s a prayer warrior and prophet for me, seeking God on my behalf and speaking his word to my soul. Besides my husband, she is my greatest cheerleader. Her fight for me has given us a great level of intimacy.
I love Sharon for her love for me but the greater reason is her love the Lord Jesus and people. She wants everyone to be okay. She’s always been this way, a little evangelist, converting hearts and minds from hurt. She knows how to make you feel warm and good about yourself. Sharon did this in her flesh. Now with the strength of the Holy Spirit she’s even bolder so that others know about salvation through Jesus. She’s got a lot of nerve. I love to watch her work to bring others to wholeness and healing with the power of Jesus. She’s a fighter for Him, and she is my shero.
My sister, the Rev. Sharon D. Moore (front row, 3rd from right), assistant pastor of Detroit's Ebenezer AME Church, being honored by The Michigan Chronicle in its Salute to First Ladies in 2010
Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith
She had long hair, gray eyes, caramel brown skin, and a lisp, and I wanted to be just like her, Gracie, my babysitter, with the hippest bell bottoms that she wore to cover her Earth Shoes. I willed my hair longer, wished for gray eyes, was happy my skin looked like hers and pulled my regular pants below my waist so I, too, could have dragging pants. Gracie was pretty and sweet and smelled good too, like the first scent of flowers in spring. I added bacon to my grits with a sprinkle of pepper because this is how Gracie, 15 years my senior, ate her grits. Every chance I got my school-girl self became Gracie, my neighbor who watched me and my siblings from infancy until we could stay home alone. But even after she stopped sitting, I longed to be like her.
I wanted Greg, the only boyfriend I remember Gracie having until she met David, who is now her husband. Greg was a tall and thin chocolate brown honey with a huge Afro and sports car. He and Gracie would take me for rides, just rides; we wouldn’t go anywhere in particular. Gracie laughed and snuggled with Greg and I snickered in the backseat. Though she was into him, she was never loud or lewd, and Greg seemed to worship her. I wanted Greg to be my boyfriend. When I went on rides with them I pretended he was; I just allowed Gracie to sit in the front seat and snuggle. But with Gracie being pretty, smart and smiley and me sitting in the back sit, I knew I didn’t have a chance with Greg. Gracie found out she didn’t either, though. I remember her and my mom talking in hushed tones and Gracie shaking her head knowingly. I don’t know what happened, but I know Gracie knew that Greg wasn’t good for her. I never saw him with Gracie again.
After that she smiled a bit less for a while, but she didn’t stop. She never let anything stop her. Not an unstable family life. Not skipping college to work so she could live on her own. Not challenges in her own family. Whether job loss, house loss, or loved one loss, she has remained focused and hopeful. Though I first loved Gracie because she was pretty and smelled good, I began to love her more for her strength to make the hard decisions, to go forward when others would have walked away. This determination sprang from her human spirit but has been sustained by the Holy Spirit, who came to reside in her when she accepted Jesus Christ as her savior. Still I long to be like her, now because of her determination to please God, no matter what the cost. Janet “Gracie” Hector, with her sweet smiling saved self, is my lifetime shero.
Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith
“Shut up over there.” This was a frequent command that bellowed from a gravelly voice that always seemed coated with phlegm. Immediately, cackling boys and girls hushed and wondered how the finger of Mrs. Tate, my cocked-eyed 60-something 6th grade teacher standing at the chalkboard, always landed exactly on the culprit. We never thought she could see us so most took advantage of her crooked eye. She was just too smart for us, would catch the motor mouths every time and remind the slow ones they still had work to do.
“You dumber than dirt, sister (brother). You dumber than dirt,” she would say when a student couldn’t answer what she thought was an easy question. And don’t try to tell her why you didn’t know the answer, have your homework or complete your class work. She’d tell you about excuses.
“Excuses! Excuses only earn you one grade, and that’s the letter excuse begins with.”
Mrs. Tate was tough and quite unconventional in her motivation, but somehow her ways inspired me. Her class would be the only time I received straight A’s even though she ostracized me to
“motivate” others. She configured the classroom with two sets of student desks facing each other from opposite sides of the room. She placed me at a teacher desk in the middle of the other desks, on display for all to see. I was in a reading group by myself. The other students had assignments while Mrs. Tate worked with me one-on-one. And she would always use me as the example of what the other students should strive to be. Somehow, I had friends, and I thank God for them, Elmira Bell and Yolanda Gibson, chief among them who would defend me and keep the haters off my back. They made my girl in a bubble experience bearable.
Though I can’t remember anything kind Mrs. Tate ever said, she taught me how to persevere in the face of adversity. I didn’t want her calling me names or the students getting the satisfaction of me doing less than my best so I pushed myself to never give up. I’ve always been determined, but Mrs. Tate tested my ability to be steadfast. Even still, I am ever grateful for her twisted love. For this, Mrs. Tate is one of my sheroes.
Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith