Author Archives: Rhonda J. Smith

Pretty, Precious Gracie

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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

Tough Mrs. Tate

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“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

My Leadership Shero

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My Aunt Alfredine

It was the summer of 1984, a sunny day filled with hope for what the fall would bring as a ninth grader at Detroit’s Cass Technical High School. Excited to be joining my sister, Sharon, and cousin Lillian, I still had some angst about being a “Freshie.” “Be careful of upperclassmen trying to sell you elevator passes; hide your Men and Nations book; and don’t look scared or lost,” they warned. Though I knew I wouldn’t be a sucker and buy a pass and was confident that I could keep my freshmen government book in my bag, I wasn’t so sure about not looking lost in this school of a few thousand. So on this sunny day, Cass’ guidance department head at the time, Mrs. Wiley as she was known to most—but my Aunt Alfredine because she was my mom’s best friend from college—invited me and another nervous would-be freshman to tour the halls of the eight-floor magnet school for the academically gifted. Because each floor’s design was basically the same, I was able to make mental notes of paths to the easy to find rooms and those in the dark, dreaded back hallways. I don’t remember having any anxiety the first day of school and I wasn’t targeted as a Freshie. My freshman experience was pleasant, and this was due in large part to the opportunity Auntie gave me that summer day in 1984. My continued confidence in life, especially in the area of leadership, comes from several opportunities from my awesome auntie, Alfredine Jordan Wiley.

Those who know Aunt Alfredine know that you truly believe you can fly when she talks to you. Always speaking in terms of “we,” you know she will have your back in whatever joint endeavor. But the event doesn’t have to be joint; if she knows she can help you and is available, she’s there, with a word, an action or a referral. In high school, she gave me my leadership start by allowing me to be an office aide and encouraging me to run for senior class secretary and president of AKA Teens (which I won), but she also encouraged me to try out for cheerleading and to run for Pep Club president (which I didn’t make). Whether good or bad she’s always made me feel I could achieve. As she moved her pointer finger slow like a gavel and her head shaking the same way with one eye closed and telling you her truth through pursed lips, she would always say something like, “You can’t win them all, but you know you’re good, Rhonda. You know you’re good.” And because she believed I was a good leader, as president of our sorority’s chapter she appointed me as co-chair and then chair of our founders’ day celebration, encouraged me twice to run for our chapter’s executive and foundation boards (which I won) and had me serve on a bunch of other committees. Often we were roommates (sometimes without my mother) at sorority conferences. We talked, shopped and dined together during these times and outside of them because our love for one another extended beyond leadership. She just knows how to make people feel special, and this she has done for me.

I thank her for teaching me how to mobilize and motivate people and love them unconditionally. And she taught her daughters to love that way, too. Never once did Lillian or Jennifer, my cousins and my sisterfriends, make me feel that I didn’t belong to their mother. They always called me the third daughter. I love Lillian and Jennifer because of our own bond but I appreciate them for sharing their mother with me and always knowing she had enough love for us all. Their capacity to love and share comes from a mother who has always wanted the best for all, even if that meant her going without. This educator, friend and leader is my Aunt Alfredine and I am proud to call her my shero.

Copyright by Rhonda J. Smith

Your Sweetness

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Granny hosting a birthday party for a relative

For Brunice Lewis, Granny, on her 78th birthday
December 12, 2004

She is high and lifted up
Because she looks down, picks others up
You know who I’m talking about
Granny, Bern, Sybil, Ma, Auntie
No matter what the name
They are all the same
We talkin’ ‘bout Brunice Lewis
Cooking pies and cakes
Making dinners
Keeping dates
For Rob and Holmes
Whatever event
Call her home
She is there to make others happy and f(ph)at
Fortune and far-reaching fame
Aren’t her claims
Though money could be
If she didn’t share it with you and me.
She’s a saint
A local queen
Sits enthroned on Marlborough street
reigns supreme to meet your needs
You know who I’m talking about
She is your sweetness
The neighborhood piper
The wet eye wiper
You need a place to stay
You need an ear to hear
You need a voice to speak
You need a word to keep
You need cash in hand
You need a ride to get there
You go to the throne of sweetness
My sweetness
Your sweetness
She is royalty
Queenly inside and out
A heart overflowing
Hands and feet showing lots of love
She is your sweetness
My granny, your granny
Everyone’s sweetness
And we praise her
Your sweetness.

Copyright 2004-2010 by Rhonda J. Smith

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