By Sr. Correspondent, D. Kevin McNeir

It has been a tradition since the time of pagan pageantry and early Christianity to honor our mothers. At the start of the 20th century here in the United States, Anna Jarvis created Mother's Day as a day for each family to honor its mother - now as we know, it is celebrated on various days in many places around the world. And while the day may change, and the method of celebrating may vary, from Indiana to Indonesia, on one particular day of the year, we honor the mothers of our lives - biological and adopted.


 

But for me, Mother's Day happens 365 days of the year because of the special woman that the Creator chose to be my mother - Edna Lorraine Adkins McNeir Baker.
When our publisher asked me about writing a tribute to mothers I wondered how I could speak adequately about this fiery, feisty phenomenal woman that loves and encourages me more than any other being on the planet. But ... here goes!

Sure we are in a celebratory mode right now because of the special bond between First Lady Michelle Obama and her mother, Marian Robinson, as the recent issue of Essence illustrates for the world to see.

But guess what? I have my own First Mother and while the sacrifices, contributions and achievements of her life may never grace the pages of a publication like Essence, at least now, as an editor and senior correspondent for this website that continues to grow in popularity and readers, I can take a moment to honor her and all of the mothers of our staff and readers whose stars shine just as brightly.

So, what makes my mother, a normal sister from Baltimore, so special?

 
First, she is my muse - my inspiration for writing. She was the one who set me on the lap of the celebrated poet, Gwendolyn Brooks, during a reading at the Detroit Public Library in the late 1960s and started me on my way.

We were one of only four Blacks in the audience - the other two being my cousin, Michael, and my Aunt Evelyn - but Miss Edna was not to be deterred. She walked proudly like the African queen that my father saw when he first laid eyes on her and she told me and Michael that we could be whatever we wanted to be and do whatever we wanted to do - as long as we kept God first in our lives. And Brooks told me the same thing - two sistah girls encouraging a little Black boy who dreamed of being a writer with a message that mattered one day.

Second, my mother has always had the ability to give me, her nieces and nephews, and most recently her grandchildren the look -- something that I think is an inherited trait carried by all women of color. You know what I mean folks - that slight turn of the head and one eye that seems to extend from the source's head zeroing in on its target like the X-ray vision of Superman. That look got me straight during moments when I tried to act "mannish" in church, during family celebrations when I was growing tired and therefore becoming more mischievous - even now when I forget to send cards on time, ask for money because I have blown the budget or make promises to my children that I am unable to keep. The look keeps this brother in line.

Then, there are those warm and loving open arms. It's a proven fact that babies flourish when they are held and hugged -- from the very moment they leave the womb. And while I am certainly no longer a babe in arms, there is something special about my mother's arms. When I travel back to Virginia where she now lives with my Dad to visit, I cannot wait for her to hug me -- to wrap me in her cocoon of love -- and tell me that I am special. So many men and women that I know today, especially those who are part of the SGL community, have never had that kind of love and it effects the decisions they make and the often dysfunctional relationships in which they engage -- all because they NEED to be held and affirmed.

 

Even when I have failed, faltered and fallen short of the mark, there is one person standing who tells me, "well, baby, just tie a knot and hang on." That's my Mom -- God Bless Her. Sometimes in my darkest moments, the telephone will ring, as if she just knew that I needed to hear from her -- that I was deep in a funk, surrounded by the demons of depression and despair -- and then, the sun comes out.

Maybe it's in her laugh or in the unexpected cards that come in the mail. Whatever the case, those arms are more powerful than a gladiator's triceps, more flexible then the graceful limbs of an Ailey dancer, and they always bring life and hope to my situation.

Finally, there is the smile. It isn't easy being a writer -- clients fail to pay you on time, editors want you to work for half of what you're worth or less, public relations managers want you to jump through hoops and fire on seemingly impossible deadlines. And the list goes on. But when I complete a project and share my excitement about it with my Mom, I can hear her smiling through the telephone. And I know that I have done something worthwhile.

That smile reminds of the love that Christ has for all of his children and I need that -- especially in a world that often hates me because I am Black, because I am intelligent, because I have a love for other men. I cannot change the person that God has made me and I know my Mother understands that. And so, rather than trying to change me herself, she encourages me to be the best MAN that I can be -- to my two beautiful children, to their mother, to my siblings, to my friends, to my lover -- to the world. And my soul rests.

I wish I had the riches of Donald Trump so that I could buy my mother diamonds and pearls and gowns and furs. I wish that I could fly to visit her every weekend as a surprise and arrive with dozens of roses, chocolate and lace handkerchiefs. I wish I could do all these things and more -- because for many people material things are what prove our love for another. But that's the thing -- all my Mom ever wants is a simple greeting card from me -- an outward expression of that love that grows more intense every day. And sometimes I even get that wrong -- forgetting to mail things on time, putting incorrect postage on letters -- YEAH -- I sometimes get it all messed up.

But she takes it all in stride. Because she's my mother -- my one and only mom (OAOM) and she knows my heart.
I know that each of you have stories that would bring tears to our eyes if you could share them about the relationship between you and your mother. And I hope that this reflection reminds you to tell that special woman in your life how much she means to you.

There was a time when I was a little jealous of the way my children and their mom, my former wife, seem to connect so intimately. But now, looking back on my life, I understand it clearly. When a woman protects you for nine months in their womb, eating and breathing and surviving so that you too will survive, something unique and formidable occurs. And trust me my friend's -- there is nothing more beautiful than a mother's love.
So "Mother Dear" may you live for decades to come and may others have the joy of experiencing your touch, your smile, your arms -- your love.

One more thing -- I never wonder what it will be like to join that celestial army in heaven one day -- because my mother has shared the kind of love that Christ has for us all -- and she shows it in every thing she does and says. That's LOVE!!
PS. There are a few other women who have been mothers to me in my life and while they may never read this reflection, I want to send their names out into the universe --especially since some of them have crossed over to be with our Lord.
Happy Mother's Day and thanks for making me the man that I am and the man that I am destined to be: Gwendolyn Smith, Sarah Sanders, Herbert Lee Hunt, Pearl Moss, Evelyn Crane, Frances Jones, Fannie Adkins, Mye McNeir, Oneida Lewis, Viola Terry, Minnie Flowers, Mary Jennings, Beverly Bey-Chastity, Candace Jenkins, and Loretta Barrington.

Happy Mother's Day to you, and to the millions of unnamed mothers in our world.