Growing up in New York state, I seldom saw a person of color, but my Lebanese family probably qualified as the official immigrants in the city. We were darker skinned than people with last names like Anderson and Clark.

We did our best to fit in – we loved potato salad and fried chicken, but we ate food our “American” friends couldn’t pronounce – kibbee, tabooley and fataya.
Our grandparents spoke Arabic to each other instead of English, even though the first order of business my grandfather performed at his store each and every morning was to post the American flag.

When my family moved to Louisiana, I was in middle school and definitely the outsider. Trying to fit into the established culture of Louisiana in the late 1960s wasn’t easy.

I spoke with a pronounced Northern accent and, worse than any other social mistake, I was a “Yankee.” The prejudice toward people different than those who grew up in that town was subtle but it was there.
It was in the way elderly people of color deferred to the white people. It was in the way older whites spoke to people of color, the superior tone in their voices conveying a flawed belief that they were better because of the lightness of their skin.

In the aisles of the Winn Dixie, I heard quiet talk of the Ku Klux Klan, and whispers of Klan meetings in our Louisiana town.

But I came to see black people differently through a classmate, Gerald. He was smart, funny and had a constant smile. He was the first friend I had who was not white, and he made me see that just because people are a different color on the outside doesn’t mean we’re different on the inside.

But he still couldn’t come to our houses, nor we to his, and that wall was one we didn’t think we could ever tear down because prejudice was part of the Southern fabric of life in those days.
Not only that, but people were scared. No one wanted a cross burned in their yard, and there were whispered stories of families who’d had that happen because they were supportive of civil rights.
The Confederate flag was flown openly and proudly and no one questioned why we flew the flag of slavery and prejudice at the same level as the American flag that stood for equality and freedom.

That’s because the Confederate flag – like offensive bumper stickers and racist and homosexual jokes at parties – are seen and heard so often that society becomes desensitized to just how hurtful and damaging those signs are.

But the time for overlooking is over. The heart-breaking and horrible hate crime that took place in Charleston S.C. is a wake-up call to the undercurrents of prejudice in this country.
A despicable white man sat down in a historic African-American church and listened to members talk about the word of God for over an hour.

Then he pulled out a gun and killed them, face to face, in cold blood.

The word “monster” doesn’t come close. Evil, twisted and doomed to hell are more appropriate. He won’t get the “mentally ill” or “terrorist” pass from me. I won’t repeat his name because to do so would give him even more publicity.

The names I will repeat, with respect, sadness and sorrow are those who lost their lives that day:  Depayne Middleton Doctor, Cynthia Hurd, Susie Jackson, Ethel Lance, the Rev. Clementa Pinckney, Tywanza Sanders, the Rev. Dr. Daniel Simmons Sr., Sharonda Coleman-Singleton and Myra Thompson.

We can help them rest in peace by no longer ignoring subtle prejudices. Take down those Confederate flags, and scrape them off truck windows.
Stop judging a person by the color of their skin. Don’t listen to the racial jokes or look the other way when you see injustice. Stop excusing cruel behavior because they’re “good ole boys.”

And remember what Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. said:  “The ultimate tragedy is not the oppression and cruelty of the bad people, but the silence over that by the good people.”

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

There’s two family reunions this summer, and my to-do list for the first one is pretty short – print my boarding pass, load up books for my Kindle and get my face waxed.

My heritage is half Lebanese and half Cajun. Although I’m not sure what side passed on the abundant hair gene, I do know that for all of my life, I’ve dealt with hairy arms, hairy legs and a hairy face.
When I was a teenager, my older cousin, Sylvia, took me under her wing.

She showed me a green and white box, “Jolen Crème Bleach,” and told me the paste inside would hide my moustache. The directions said the crème would turn dark hair into soft light hair.
Since I had more hair on my upper lip than my Uncle Eli, I took her advice and used the bleach.

To my inexperienced eyes, the hair disappeared. What I’m sure it looked like was this clueless  dark-skinned girl with dark hair walking around with a blonde moustache, fooling no one.

When I was in my 20’s, I was having a free facial. The lady told me two things – I should have two eyebrows, not one, and electrolysis was the solution for the hair on my lip.

Talk about a double burn. It’s not enough that I walked around with a hairy lip, now I had to contend with my uni-brow.
My Lebanese/Cajun eyebrow went from one side of my face to the other side. That woman told me to buy a good pair of tweezers and start plucking.
I took her advice to heart and got after that uni-brow. So much, in fact, that my eyebrows would have to cross the width of the Mississippi River to touch again.

But tweezing and electrolysis hurts. So when my pain threshold and checkbook both started screaming in pain, I told myself to live with the hair.
I became adept at talking with my finger over my upper lip and I learned how to position my hand in just the right way under my nose so people thought I was deep in thought, not trying to hide something.

Then a friend suggested waxing. It was much cheaper than electrolysis, she said, and not as expensive. All I had to lose was some hair, so I went with my sister and sisters-in-law to a salon.
Here’s the conversation from that visit:

“I’d like to get my upper lip waxed, please.”

The lady looks closer.

“Oh, you need your brows done too,” she says.

So when I get in the room, she takes out a magnifying glass and says I need my chin, the sides of my face, my eyebrows and along the hairline all waxed.

In other words, the whole face.

To the non-informed, waxing consists of going into a softly lit room with gentle music playing. Then a quiet woman with tiny hands comes into the room and assures you everything will be okay.

She takes a wooden stick and dips it in a pot. She tells you the mixture will be warm on your face, which it is, and you begin to relax. Then this nice woman puts a piece of cotton gauze over the warm wax and gently rubs it over the wax.
The tender woman instantly mutates into Magilla Gorilla who, with one mighty tug, rips the wax and gauze off your face along with every hair follicle in its way.

You want to dunk your head in a bucket of ice water to stop the stinging. But then Magilla’s applying that nice warm wax to another hairy spot and you realize the truth – your hair, your problem.

So at the family reunions this summer, I know how to figure out who’s related to me.

The girls who look like my Uncle Eli.  

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Parents are biting their knuckles as they watch their sons and daughters packing for a new life in a dormitory or apartment.

The kids think they have life all figured out.

Mom and Dad know differently.

The Internet is filled with graduate advice and life lessons, and family members feel it’s their duty to make sure they impart the wisdom they’ve learned over the years.

But teenagers ignore any speech that starts with “let me give you a little advice” because they know everything. Let’s be honest – they do know everything because what they don’t have in their heads, they can find on their phone.

Suggestions and bits of folksy advice don’t work. So, Class of 2015, here’s some “get ‘er done” words:

Don’t look like an idiot. Your phone’s pretty smart, but there are some things you need to know to impress those over the age of 35. Why? Unless you’re working at a fast-food joint, those are the people signing your paycheck.

You should know the names of the Beatles. They’re John, George, Ringo and Paul. Chuck Berry was the first true rock-and-roll legend, even though Elvis is the king.

Nobody can replace Marilyn Monroe when it comes to sex appeal, James Brown is the godfather of soul and Karen Carpenter had the voice of an angel. If you don’t know who these artists were, fire up Google. And commit that to memory.

Learn some manners. Chew with your mouth closed, open the door for others, hold your fork like an eating utensil, not a shovel, and put your dirty clothes in the hamper. Don’t drop them on the floor like a snake shedding its skin.

Thank others on a regular basis. This order comes courtesy of Terry High Football Coach Tim Teykl. People like to be acknowledged for what they do, and they are seldom recognized. Be the one that rights that oversight. But not through a text. Show some class – write them a note.

Quit driving like a maniac. Obey the speed limits. Quit changing lanes like you’re playing hop-scotch. Use the signals more than your horn. Don’t tailgate and keep at least a half tank of gas in your vehicle at all times. You never know when an emergency’s coming up.

Stop texting and driving. The most important direct order you’ll ever get because the life you save may be yours or your mother’s or your sister’s. No life is worth driving 80 miles per hour because you want to show off or get there faster.

Be nice to people.This is basic kindergarten advice, graduates. Not only is being nice the right thing to do, but you never know when that person you told off is going to be your boss. Vent to your dog. He’ll never repeat what you said and he’s much more forgiving than people.

Save your money. It’s so tempting to get the latest phone upgrade, order more movies from NetFlix or buy those new shoes. Quit buying fad items and put that money in a sock in your drawer until you regain your senses.

Find something good in every person you meet. Most people have good inside them. Look until you find it. But know when to stop wasting your time because it’s most people, not all people.

And there you have it, Class of 2015, some suggestions for life.  Don’t thank me – I’m simply telling you the same thing your parents and grandparents have been telling you all your life.

So do what they say. You’ll be glad you did.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The lightning show was incredible. Throughout the night, my living room lit up as if I’d flipped a giant light switch on and off and there were a thousand sparklers in the room.
A second later, the skies rumbled and roared so forcefully, the house shuddered. The rain pounded on the side of the house so hard, I thought it would take the paint off.

It’s tough to look at the pictures of flooded highways in Houston and not feel sorry for all those who lost property or were scared during the rampage. Not to offend those affected by the flooding, people in California, farmers or gardeners, but oh, there are times I miss the drought.

For the past five years, most of Texas didn’t see a drop of rain. This year, the drought ended, and we’re getting the rain we prayed for.
But there are things about the drought I found myself missing as our dog sat across my lap in the middle of the night, shaking with fear from the storm outside.

Mosquitoes. When we were in the middle of the drought, we went to an outdoor concert, and it never occurred to me to bring mosquito repellent.

Now with the rains, I can’t walk to my mailbox without spraying myself with “Off.” Coming home, I opened the car door to get the newspaper at the end of the driveway, and, not thinking, left the door open.
By the time I closed the door, there were 10 hungry mosquitoes buzzing around in my car.

Umbrellas. For five years, I never wondered where I’d left my umbrella. When the drought ended, I had to search all over the house for one. The umbrella I did find was dry rotted from lack of use and I had to throw it away.

Outside parties. We never had to wonder if we’d have to cancel an outdoor event during the long, dry spell. We knew it wasn’t going to rain for weeks. Swim party? Any day from May through September was just fine. Not only no rain but no mosquitoes – double bonus.

No surprises. The weather forecast for 2010-2014 was – hot, hotter, hotter than Hades. Every single day. At the time, it was miserable, but with all these rains, flooded streets and never knowing if the skies are going to open up and drench everything in sight, a little dry spell would be welcome.

Fire ants. These vicious little critters are the scourge of the earth, worse than locusts and stinging caterpillars. During the drought, they escaped deep underground and weren’t as much of a problem.

Now that it’s raining, it’s as if they signaled each hibernating colony to rise up and build mega-cities across our lawn. The company that discovers a way to eradicate these beasts, short of a flame thrower, should win every science prize ever invented.

To be fair, there are things I missed during the drought – a sky filled with fluffy white clouds, rainbows after a late-afternoon shower, splashing through water puddles and the sounds of light rain on the roof.

But after seeing a sky filled with ominous black clouds, late-afternoon showers that last for days, water puddles that turn into raging rivers and rain on the roof that sounds as if angry aliens are starting an invasion, I’m feeling a bit nostalgic for dusty roads.

I suppose we’ll have to take what Mother Nature dishes out, get out our boots and dance in the rain.  

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

One of the most beautiful Houston venues is The Hobby Center for Performing Arts where Theatre Under the Stars, TUTS, stages productions.
Last week, I had the chance to see “The Music Man” with a group of teens, most of whom had never been to the center.

They were amazed at the majesty of the theater, and we were all holding our breath when the curtain went up for the first scene. “The Music Man” opens with a group of fast-talking traveling salesmen. The dialogue is rapid fire, the stage car set was beautiful and the costumes were spot on.
And then I noticed it – all the salesmen were White. In fact, there wasn’t a person of color in the entire cast.

I know “The Music Man” takes place in Iowa in 1912. Back then, people of color, if they were even included in a show, were either chauffeurs or maids.  I’m sure when Meredith Wilson wrote the musical in the 1950s, he didn’t think about including different races.
As I sat there, squirming a little in my seat, I wondered why TUTS was staging a musical with an all-white cast in a city as diverse as Houston. It could be for the money as “The Music Man” is a well-known play and brings in the bucks.

Perhaps they think we shouldn’t tamper with the original script or change the writer’s vision or words.
Rubbish.
Theater and music are nothing if not creative and cutting edge. True artists push the envelope for society and, as a result, works of art are often adapted to reach a modern audience.

One of the most popular modern musicals is “West Side Story.” It was written in the 1960s as an updated Romeo and Juliet love story. I don’t remember Shakespeare reciting “When you’re a shark,” in his works,  but the new story line stayed true to Shakespeare’s words while still reflecting prejudices between families, races and cultures.

I flipped through the playbook to see what TUTS is offering the rest of the season, and here’s a list of their upcoming shows:  “Matilda The Musical,” “A Christmas Story, “Bridges of Madison County, “Mary Poppins,” “Oliver” and “A Gentleman’s Guide.”
All White people. To be fair, two productions, “The Little Mermaid” and “Cinderella” feature one or two cast members who are different ethnicities. “Hairspray” has a strong message about the Civil Rights movement. But it’s not being staged in The Hobby Centre. We’ll have to sit outside to see that one.
During intermission, I asked some of the teens if they were enjoying the show. They gushed about the beautiful surroundings and the quality of the performers and the orchestra. Then I asked if they noticed anything about the cast.
One Black girl said she noticed there wasn’t a face of color in the cast but said that’s just the way it is. A young man standing nearby said he noticed the same thing and came to the same conclusion. White teens noticed the same omission and said it was a bit uncomfortable to be sitting next to students of different races and not seeing anybody like their friends on the stage.
That the White students noticed the slight gave me hope. But the students of color who said “that’s just the way it is” saddened me more than the lack of diversity on the stage.
Our high schools don’t have a problem mixing races and cultures when casting plays, and the audience, the players and our communities are richer for that decision. Those directors understand that talent trumps ethnicity and race every single time.
Too bad the “professionals” don’t get it.
 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The first thing I did on my 15^thbirthday was stand in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles in Baker, La. so I could earn my driver’s license. I was there before the office opened because I couldn’t wait to start driving legally.

I always wanted to drive, and I begged to sit next to my dad on long car trips. He’d explain how to keep up with traffic, how to merge and how to conquer the interstate.

In town, I practiced in our old Ford sedan. I don’t remember much about that car except it was a standard with the stick shift on the steering column and it was fast.

When I was a senior in high school, my dad gave me his old Pontiac Executive. That car was a lumbering tank, and five could sit across the back seat with no problem.

The car had a few issues – I had to pump the brakes to stop and mornings required my holding the choke valve closed so my brother could crank it up.

But the car was mine, and it was a sad day when we sold that Pontiac. After that came a few junkers until I bought my very first car – a white 1980 Honda that was just right as it was usually just me and our eldest son.

But as much as I liked that little car, eventually we had to get a bigger vehicle for our growing family, and we became owners of a minivan, the suburban parents’ go-to vehicle.

Although some people turn their noses up at minivans, I loved ours. In fact, I loved our minivans so much, we owned two back to back to accommodate bats, bikes and boys.

I pushed our last van a little too far, though. I didn’t want to put 600 miles on a new vehicle, so I took our aging minivan to Louisiana one last time.

That was a huge mistake as it kept overheating. I finally called my husband to rescue us in Beaumont, and that was the last time I saw our minivan.

By this time, though, our boys were grown, and it was time to downsize. I bought a sedan and came to enjoy a smaller car.

When my father passed away, I cried almost every afternoon in that car, missing my dad so much, I thought my heart would break.

One afternoon, somebody rear ended me and bent the frame. When I saw the car in the junk yard, I thought I’d be happy to see that sad car out of my life, but I stood there and cried one last time for the loss of my safe place.

Two more sedans followed; but as our grandchildren now number four, we decided to move back up to a larger vehicle to accommodate the youngsters.

It might seem odd to upsize, but the right car’s been in my life at the right time.

A huge Pontiac Executive kept a know-it-all teenager safe and sound. That little white Honda was sporty and economical, just like my life.

The minivans suited our family perfectly; and when I transitioned from a baseball mom to a working woman, sedans fit the bill.

Now I’ve moved into needing a vehicle that will keep our grandchildren safe and sound.

Because I’m hoping one day my granddaughter will sit in the front and we can talk about the rules of the road and the joy of driving.

And come full circle.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Mother’s Day is a tough holiday. While it’s a day to celebrate Mom, my heart aches as there are so many people who’ve lost their mother to illness or an accident.

Then there are those whose mothers are alive but were never invested in their child’s life. The adult child has no reason to shower flowers and bathrobes on a woman who never seemed to care.

There’s the moms who weren’t born into that role but gladly took on mom responsibilities and love their children with all their heart.

And let’s not forget dads who step in for moms due to circumstances beyond their control. They learn to braid hair, console a broken heart and find out the best place to get a mani or pedi when their girl’s having a tough week.

Throughout the ages, women have struggled to be the perfect mom. Many moms of the 1970s and 1980s  tried to balance the home front and an out-of-the-house job. Most of the time, we succeeded, but there were quite a few fast-food dinners at the ball park  we probably regret.

Moms of the 1990s bought into the theory that we could have a pre-dawn exercise routine, hold down high-powered jobs, enroll 2.5 children on every soccer, baseball, softball, yoga and swimming team within 50 miles of our house and still get our exhausted family in the minivan for a happy ride into the sunset.

Some moms of the 2000’s are trying to be like Beyonce or Princess Kate, both of whom seemed to drop the baby weight like we drop a Hot Pocket snagged out of the microwave.

We still haven’t grasped the reality that the best moms have their own style. They rear their offspring with a firm hand and a loving heart. They’re always a mom, whether they’re wearing designer jeans, sweat pants, on crutches, in a wheelchair or washing your dirty laundry.

Moms never eat the last piece of pizza or the last scoop of vanilla ice cream. In fact, the word “last” figures high in their vocabulary – they’re the last ones to turn off the lights in a child’s bedroom and the last one out of the kitchen at night.

So what do moms want on Mother’s Day? To hear their child’s voice, whether they’re 5 or 60 years old. Remember, this is the voice that called out to them in the middle of the night and yelled in triumph after catching a lizard in the flower bed.

This is the voice that telephoned for rides after they missed the bus, asked a thousand times if they had any clean underwear and, at least a million times, asked if there was anything to eat.
There are moms who would give anything to hear their child’s voice just one more time, and every person’s heart breaks for that parent.

And there are “those voices,” the whiney ones that swore their lives were ruined because we were too strict or wouldn’t let them wear makeup or short skirts.

Kids, I’ll tell you a secret. Moms will tell you they don’t remember that voice. They only remember the way your voice sounded when they tucked you in at night and you whispered “Sleep next to me, mommy, so I feel safe.”

On this Mother’s Day, remember it’s not the expensive gifts, lunch at a fancy restaurant or a new bathrobe that’ll make your mother happy. It’s your voice she wants to hear.

So call, just to say you love her, and remind her that, at this point in time, you’ll be the one to keep her safe.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The expression “blue-collar” worker doesn’t resonate like it used to, but I understand the term because I grew up in a blue-collar town.
Our parents didn’t drive new cars nor did we. We were expected to use our manners and to respect the older people in our community.
The worst offense we could commit was having a teacher call home to report we’d misbehaved in class. Not only did you get in trouble from your mom, but your grandparents, aunts and cousins joined in because you brought shame to the family. Let’s not even talk about when dad got home.
It didn’t matter your race, creed, color or religion – parents expected their children to behave and the kids who didn’t listen were the minority. They did, however, keep us entertained while we finished our work.
Kids today are still entertained by the class clown, but instead of getting in trouble with the school and then at home, troublemakers get a slap on the wrist and society makes excuses for their poor behavior.
And that’s when the trouble really starts.
When out-of-control students are allowed to have their way, good educators fear for their safety and decide to leave before they lose their desire to teach.
Eventually mediocre ones take their place, and students who want to learn are forced to do so on their own amidst disrespect, chaos and boorish behavior. Worse than that, they are left behind because no one’s there to encourage them in the classroom.

There are hundreds of theories about how to change behavior, but one theory is absolutely true — the reality of dollars and cents.  
If you run off good educators, you’re stuck with ones who are in the classroom for the paycheck. Students only learn the basics, if that, and graduate from high school at the bottom of the educational ladder.

They try and get a good job but they can’t because they don’t have the basics. Remember, the bullies ran the good teachers off. These students are left to scrape by all their lives at jobs they hate because they didn’t get an education during their formative years.

On the flip side, at schools where parents teach their children to respect teachers, respect each other and respect themselves, learning takes place. The household paycheck has nothing to do with the ability to learn respect.
Good manners are the responsibility of the parent to teach the child and then hold that child accountable. It should not be the school’s job to teach your child to sit in their seat, stop talking and learn something.
Mom and dad, that’s your job.

Parents, put down the remote and the cell phone. Teach your children at every opportunity. Have conversations at the dinner table, even if that’s over take-out burgers. Teach them to wait their turn, to use words instead of fists and to have a thirst for knowledge.  

Teach them to respect their elders and, if they don’t like the rules, learn effective ways to change them. Until then, respect the law, respect society and respect themselves enough to know they need a good education to get ahead in life. The class clowns and thugs are robbing them of the most important intangible they’ll ever have access to – an education.

No matter the color of your skin, your home address or your ethnicity, having high expectations and constantly reaching for them is what separates the educated from the ignorant.
If you want the best chance for your child to be successful, tell them that the only sure-fire way out of a situation they don’t like is an education.
And that education begins at home.
 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 I’ve had a variety of jobs, starting with babysitting when I was 12 years old. The eldest of seven children, I had a lot of on-the-job experience and landed an after-school job watching two boys when I was in high school.  

On the weekends, I worked at a movie theater. I’ve filled more bags of popcorn than I can count and sold hundreds of boxes of Jujubees. I was just a face behind the counter, not worth much respect, but the job helped me put gas in my car and pay my insurance.

I worked as a temporary office worker for Kelly Girl to pay my college tuition. Because we were temps, nobody in the office bothered to learn our names or invite us to lunch. Up to that point, jobs were a way to earn money, nothing more.

Then started the most satisfying and lowest-paying job of my life – mom. I went through all the stereotypical situations stay-at-home moms experience and learn to surface laugh about. That included having nothing to talk about at parties except the plot lines on “Sesame Street.”

When the boys were in school all day, I started working part-time at this newspaper. The arrangement was a great fit because I could be home with my sons but contribute to society as a feature writer. I was fortunate to interview and write about the best people in our county.
Somewhere along the way, though, reporters got blamed for biased reporting and the profession I came to love was vilified because of a few bad apples.

I went back to college to earn my bachelor’s degree and a teaching position opened up. For eight years now, I’ve been teaching high school journalism, passing on my love and passion for not only writing but for showing young journalists they can change the world in a positive way with their words.

And once again, the profession I’ve chosen has come under attack. People want to blame all of society’s woes on teachers.
There’s a nasty and misleading bill before the Texas House of Representatives, SB893, that not only slashes teacher salaries but will quickly drive out dedicated teachers who believe in education but realistically have to feed their families.

I’ve called and written my representatives opposing this bill, and I urge others to do the same. And not just in support of educators but for any bill that’s written for special interest groups and not society as a whole.
I’m tired of being the scapegoat in my chosen profession. Instead of giving up, I’m fighting for respect, and it’s time to give credit where credit is due. Moms, your job is the basic building block of society, whether you’re working outside the home or in the home. Don’t let anyone belittle what you do. 
Teachers, your job is to educate and enlighten. Fight for what’s right and show your students that when good people sit back and do nothing, the bad guys win.
And reporters – your job is to keep watch and report. We’re counting on you to make sure justice prevails and to keep digging until you find the truth.

No matter what career path you follow, make your voice heard when you see legislation going up for a vote that’s on the side of special interest groups, not the common guy.
Standing up publicly for what you believe is an honorable way to live. And, if I pay attention to what my parents, my teachers and my editors told me, it’s the only way.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.   

  One of the downsides of living in the country and working in the city is the commute time. I’m grateful I don’t have to drive through rush-hour traffic or battle the “spaghetti bowls” of Houston. But an hour commute each day does have its perks.

The main advantage is I talk with my mom every day on my way home. She always wants to know how I’m doing and then there’s my standard questions about her blood sugar and what she did that day.

Her days are filled with more activities than someone a third her age. She volunteers at the local hospital’s gift shop, she helps count the money at church and she makes refreshments for the people in my brother’s religious education class.

There’s lots of laughter in our conversations and most of the time, our talks center around the present.

Today’s conversation started with talking about our getting a bigger vehicle so we can transport our grandchildren from their new house back to ours for weekend visits. That led into when our family moved from New York to Louisiana.

I was going into the seventh grade, and the story I was told was that my dad wanted us in his home state, Louisiana, because he couldn’t stand shoveling snow any more.

We had to sell our toys, our furniture and most of our belongings and move into a house a third the size of what we had up north. Worse, we were moving away from my mom’s entire family.
Eventually we made friends, but those first few years weren’t easy. My mom made sure we all attended Mass and ate Sunday dinner together and she established holiday traditions we’ve carried over in our own extended families.

What I didn’t realize until our conversation today was that my Dad left because he’d failed at every business opportunity he had up there and was desperate. That left my Mom with six children to take care of, so she went back to school and got a job.

She wasn’t sure he would come back, but when my Dad returned with a U-Haul, Mom made the decision to leave her parents and move to Louisiana with a broken husband and six young children.
I asked how she came to that decision and she said the answer was simple – they’d promised each other in church to raise a family together, and they weren’t going to break that promise until they’d given their life another chance. And just as important, she wanted her family together.

So she put what she thought her children needed in place of what was easy for her. She doesn’t judge single mothers – she stood by me 35 years ago when I found myself in that situation – and she’s supportive of all the decisions her children have made because she wants us to be happy.
Not a conversation goes by where my Mom isn’t telling me how much she loves all of us and how wonderful and special she believes all of her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren to be.

“Your children are everything,” she said. “They are your precious gift from God and they come first.”

“Even when they’re all grown up?” I said.

“Forever,” she replied.

I held the phone away so she wouldn’t hear the catch in my voice.

“Mom, if I haven’t told you lately, you’re my hero,” I finally said.

“No,” she replied. “I’m just your mom.”

In my book, that’s a hero.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.