Tag Archives: Woman

My Hustler Granny

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We’ve all heard the saying, “They don’t make them like that anymore,” talking about some appliance or person whose value is great because of perfection or endurance. This is what I can say about Granny, formally known as Brunice Lewis. I wrote about her when I started this blog in 2008. Granny was my husband’s grandmother but she was my granny too.

Granny, Andrina and Me, 1998


Granny liked me from the start, offering me her bed the first time we met, which was during the hour of my afternoon nap. I liked her, too, lying on her linen with little fear of saliva-scented and otherwise soiled sheets. From the beginning, being with Granny felt like home, and she taught me how to make a better one.

She came to Michigan from Alabama when she was 15, finding day work with a rich family in the old money city of Grosse Pointe, Michigan. Her day work often turned into night work, cleaning, cooking and caring for her employer’s business and children. She wasn’t ashamed of her work but let it work to her advantage. Though she was hired to cook, she learned additional culinary skills and put them to use as a caterer. Granny learned how to invest her money and used it and her time to invest in people. She taught me how to garden; I know when to plant what, how to dead head and pull weeds, and how to separate overgrown plants and transplant them and other plants. And because of Granny, I know how to make homemade sausage and Red Velvet cake. I met Granny because of my husband, but our relationship went beyond him.

Like with her daughter, Andrina, my mother-in-love, Granny and I shopped, talked on the phone and dined together. Most times it was Granny, Andrina and me. And sometimes they would call me on the three-way and say they wanted to buy me an outfit, just because. Other times Granny would just make me some beans and cornbread or a Red Velvet cake, just because. But I know her service wasn’t just because, it was because she loved me. And, oh, how I loved her.

I admired her for her grit and her wit and for just being an all around hustler. She knew how to make a dollar because she couldn’t depend on any industry. She was her own industry, making and selling pies, cakes, single dishes and whole dinners, and cleaning homes. Even with her busyness until her ailing days, Granny had a tremendous capacity to love. Her memory challenges me to step it up, keep it up and never forget about people. And for that she was truly my shero.

Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith

The Greatest Mother-in-Love

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My mother-in-love, Andrina, and me

She cooks and cleans for him, calling him daily to make sure things are going okay. She helps with his bills and cares for his children. He’s spoiled. And each calculated act is meant to show him how much he needs her. This is not the woman of a single dad’s dreams, but the woman in a wife’s nightmares: the mother-in-law from the crucible below. I have heard this story about the antagonistic mother-in-law and the outraged daughter-in-law and the clueless son who just wants peace. I thank God that my mother-in-law is not my nightmare but indeed one of my really good friends. Andrina Smith, my mother-in-love, has been a good friend of mine for a while, but in the beginning I had my concerns.

The first time we met was at her church. She was in the choir so I would meet her after the service. She and her girlfriends seemed to be in a competition about who would meet me first so a few ran to introduce themselves and then with satisfying smirks turned to the choir to chide Andrina, who frowned back at them. All the jockeying seemed to be more about them and less about me. During our second encounter, she continually spoke to me about this Christian conference she intended and focused heavily on the evangelistic information. She didn’t catch my ‘don’t bother me’ cues so she kept sharing and sharing even though I wasn’t looking at her, my body was turned away from her, and I was trying to listen to the host who was beginning the program we were attending; she carried on, only stopping when someone needed her. And another close encounter was her trying to convince me of theological views regarding women that I believed to be untrue. All this was before I married her son. And I still did because I knew God sent him to me and I eventually figured Andrina was just being Andrina.

More talks, prayer and grace got us past these tough spots. I realized Andrina and her friends were happy to meet someone her son thought was worth meeting and she wanted to make sure that I wasn’t a heathen who would try to run him. I don’t know what made her believe I was okay, but when she invited me to a conference with her and her friends and to share a room with all of them, she won me over. I wasn’t even married to her son but with three days and two nights with her, there was no doubt that her expression toward me was real.

She is a take charge kind of woman, my kind of woman, and I love her so dearly. My mother-in-love is a fun-loving, soul-caring, powerhouse of a Christian woman who loves me like I came from her womb. We’ve traveled together, shopped together, prayed together, warfared together, cried together, laughed together and have totally disagreed. She is definitely someone that I would have chosen as my friend. I’m so glad God sent her to me, giving me another mother and another shero.

Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith

Mama Love

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My Mama Santranella Anderson

My mama
My hero to the extreme
She’s had about 10 jobs
Two careers
Three vocations—
Not unstable
She’s just able to maintain that her anthem belter is Frank Sinatra
She does things her way.
From “My Heroes are to the Extreme” ©1997 by Rhonda Anderson

My mama, the “crazy” lady, the one with the wicked laugh
No matter where she goes she leaves an unforgettable path.
Her heart so big and ways so forgiving, her spirit teaches and keeps me living.
From “My Family” circa 1990s by Rhonda Anderson

She moves the earth with style and grace
Especially with that size 26 waist
And 40 hips
And busts so firm
You know the brothas wouldn’t leave her alone.
She was the life of the party
Personality beyond belief
But that all changed.
The crutches came.
From “Crutches” ©1995 by Rhonda Anderson

This is my mama, a woman ever-giving and beautiful inside and out. Don’t be offended that I call her crazy. She never is. But she is crazy: I just mean that she is a lot of fun and likes to laugh and there are few things she wouldn’t try or say. She got a lot of nerve and doesn’t scare easily. She had to be this way. She had three children in 2 ½ years.

Mothering us never seemed to take a toll on her even though she was sickly. She always made life fun for us. She orchestrated our dress up and in-house show times where we entertained her, and she demanded repeat performances when her girlfriends would drop by to say hi or for a counseling session and to eat. We’d have picnics at her bedside when she was too ill to cook us a meal. She’d tell us where to get a butter knife, crackers and peanut butter and we’d snack until my dad got back from work. We always had two cars, but she took us on bus rides and drives in cabs to experience other modes of transportation and other ways of life. And she would often “splurge” on restaurant food and outfits we didn’t need because “we ain’t gonna have it* anyway,” speaking of how fleeting money and other stuff can be. Though she never gave a lot of kisses and hugs but we always felt loved and safe, even when she would drive fast down a deserted path with no hands at our command in her 1972 Blue Chevy. “Hee, hee, hee, hee, hee,” she’d roar as we laughed and said, “Do it again, mama. Do it again.” We’d be on our way to a fashion show practice or dance practice or gymnastics. In later years, we might be going to a baseball or basketball game or some other school event.

She took us places and told us things that kept our heads held high and hearts open wide to others who needed the love she showed us. We didn’t go to church every week, but she laid the foundation for our faith even though hers is “not what I want it to be,” she says. My mama has a few crutches in her life, some needed, some perceived. Despite the lean, I love my mama for giving me life, sacrificing to make it good and paying the price to raise a healthy, happy and whole woman. At 41, I could say a lot more, but in that nutshell you have met my mama, the crazy lady, the one with the wicked laugh, and she is indeed my shero.

*not her choice word

Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith

Women Like Me

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From the womb I was determined to be some of what God intended for me but mostly what I thought I should be.

I had a steely demeanor, they tell me, crying till no end until my grandma let me gum at 7 months chicken and cornbread smashed up in pot liquor from collard greens. I was satisfied, had cried till I got what I wanted, and sometimes I just sat until I got ready to do what I wanted. That’s what happened when I walked. I never crawled. Just sat around and watched my sister walk and one day decided I, too, should do that.

At 2, I hid food behind the couch so I could curb late night munchies when the kitchen was closed. At 5, I befriended my now oldest friend. Throughout primary school I protected her till no end when people would tease her for her proper ways and wearing party dresses on school days. In elementary school I fought Ronnie, Aisha and Tonya ’cause I wasn’t gon’ let them run me. I didn’t let them copy my work and punk me out because I was smart, sharp and short. I was determined to be me, some of what God intended for me but mostly what I thought I should be.

So in junior high I didn’t grovel when my 7th and 8th grade friends became my nemeses. I kept my head high when I wanted to cry at being left out and talked about, the butt of all the jokes. Still I pressed on and made it through, went to high school where I developed a new crew of friends, even my 8th grade nemesis. But as you know, that group didn’t last, but I found where I belonged. Yes, the friends came and are still here, but I gained an understanding of me.

Unshakable and unstoppable, I plug away at problems, involving others to help me solve them. Even with this I now give more than lip service to saying “God is the head of my life.” He challenges me, helping me to see what’s wrong and right in my life and how I need to improve and help others to smooth their rough spots. And I can do this because He put it in me to spur, and inspire, to assist without being hired. From God’s love I have learned not to physically fight and stand up for my rights like I want to. He’s taught me and kept me focused, even by sending me women who have wanted my best.

These women are my mommas and teachers, my sisters and friends who all have played a part in shaping my heart. So this Women’s History Month I pay tribute to these wonder women who have helped me evaluate who I think I should be and lovingly encourage me to become what God intended for me to be.

Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith

My First White Friend

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My bookshelf is peppered with them: dusty books on racial reconciliation that often scream for me to clean and read them. They sit among my favorites: books on spiritual warfare and women’s discipleship, Nikki Giovanni poetry and all things James Baldwin. But the racial reconciliation books sit there, tucked away with little chance of speaking to me and helping me to integrate my life. They remind me of my relationships with the non-black women that I have known: With Stephie, Denise, Gina, Laura Kim, and Laila, I was excited about the connection, but then something happened and the newness became a thing of the past. My relationship with Stephie is the best example of this.

We met during a rehearsal for the Saks Fifth Avenue Teen Board fashion show we were in. She just started talking to me, and we hit it off. Stephie was funny and fashion conscious and our conversations flowed freely. To be honest, I thought she was a light-skinned black girl because she had dark curly hair and a deep tan. I don’t remember when I found out she was white, but it didn’t matter to me. We had bonded and Stephie became my first white friend. This was the summer of 1984.

For the next few months, we talked for hours on the phone and made plans for a sleepover that winter. Her mom agreed that I would spend the night at their home, but the elder’s conversations with me revealed a change of heart. She warned me that I would be the only black person at Stephie’s high school basketball game and told me that I would probably be uncomfortable. And she wanted to know what “special foods” I ate, expressing her inability to cook something other than what she was used to cooking. In spite of her attempts to deter me, I went to her home in her nearly all-white town.

The basketball game was snowed out, so Stephie and I hung out in her room and chatted like we did on the phone. This time she occasionally included her mom in the conversations. “Mom, look at her Guess Jeans. Aren’t they nice?” “Mom, she has a Coach purse.” I felt uncomfortable being on display, and that discomfort continued when at dinner her mom asked me what my parents did for a living and a host of other questions about my family and lifestyle. Breakfast the next morning was comfortable, but I felt antsy again when Stephie blurted out “You have a big house” as they pulled into my driveway after bringing me home. They met my family, glanced around the house and then went on their way. That was the last time I saw Stephie in a social setting. After our sleepover she would sneak to call me because “my mother said I couldn’t be your friend.” When her mother caught her sneaking to call me, all our contact ended, and though I have my suspicions, I am not quite sure why.

So like my books, for years I have shelved any potential relationships with non-black women. The pain of rejection has been too great. But those books have been screaming to be cleaned and read. And because I met Natalia Powers I might just do that. You’ll have to read the next post to find out who she is.

Copyright 2010 by Rhonda J. Smith