Before I Knew Love, I Knew Your Face

By William Brandon Rose

Jacqueline S. Hill. Some people know her as Jackie. I know her as Mama.

She was the first place I experienced love. Not the kind that only shows up when life is easy or beautiful enough to be remembered. The kind that makes sure you have what you need. The kind that stands between you and what you’re too young to understand.

My mother gave me more than shelter. She placed me inside my history before I knew what it meant to me. She took me to community meetings. She took me to the Million Family March. She brought me on the Civil Rights Freedom Tour. She reinforced that being Black wasn’t a burden to shrink under, but a truth to stand in.

At SHAPE Community Center (Houston, Third Ward), she was often behind the scenes. She served as an assistant to the executive director, coordinated events, organized fundraisers, and wrote grants. But the titles don’t cover it all.

She was a designer. She created literature for community leaders and made the print materials and flyers that helped people know where to be, what was happening, and why it mattered. She partnered with vendors and organizations including Project Row Houses, the Third Ward Multi-Service Center, Emancipation Park, and the City of Houston. She worked on the Pan-African Festival when it was held at Miller Outdoor Theatre, SHAPE’s annual Kwanzaa events, and the Civil Rights Freedom Tour.

Her work didn’t stop with major events. She supported local Black businesses, often discounting her services or providing them for free. For community events, she hired young people so they could put money in their pockets. A three or four hour shift at the front desk could pay $50 to $100.

She was also part of the group that fought to keep Ryan Middle School open. Ryan was a historic neighborhood school in Third Ward, and community members resisted what they saw as another round of underinvestment in Black schools and neighborhoods.

Whether you were standing on a corner panhandling or sitting in the mayor’s office, she met you with the same compassion. Your title didn’t decide whether you deserved to be treated like a person.

That was my political education. Some of it happened on buses and at community meetings. Some of it happened in our living room.

I remember being around nine years old as we watched live coverage of the night Gary Graham was executed. I was young. I didn’t understand the case, the disputed evidence, or everything the adults in the room knew. But I understood the silence. I understood the heaviness and the fear in my mother’s embrace.

I can admit now that the devotion I admire also cost her. I used to think calling her strong covered all of it. It doesn’t. She deserved help. She deserved rest. She deserved to receive some of the care she gave so freely to everyone else.

Mama, I’m sorry for the years I admired your strength without fully understanding your sacrifices. Even when I had lost my way and could barely recognize myself, your love left a place for me to return to. I learned from watching you that people deserved care whether or not they had money, status, or anything to offer in return. I understand now that much of what is best in me began with what you gave.

Because before I knew love, I knew your face.