The First Place I Learned Love

Before I knew what love was, I knew your face.

Mama.

Some people know her as Jackie.

But I know her as Mama.

But before I knew the weight of her name, I knew the depth of her heart.

She was the first place I learned love.

Not the kind of love that only shows up when life is easy, convenient, or beautiful enough to be remembered well. Not the kind of love people say because silence feels too empty.

I mean the kind of love that feeds you before it feeds itself.

The kind that stands between you and what you’re too young to understand.

The kind that gets tired, but never leaves.

There are some loves you do not fully understand when you’re young. You feel them, but don’t know how to measure them. You receive them, but don’t know what they cost.

To keep standing in the gap between your children and the world, to keep covering what you created, to keep choosing love even when life gives you every reason to be tired — that kind of love is not celebrated enough.

My mother gave me more than shelter.

She gave me roots.

She made sure I understood that being Black is not a burden to shrink under, but a truth to stand inside.

I remember being placed around history before I was old enough to understand why I needed it.

At SHAPE, she was often behind the scenes, but always present.

Event coordinator. Website builder. Assistant to the executive director. Fundraiser organizer. The hands behind the flyers, the newsletters, the programs, the kind of work that moves the needle.

Some nights, she would leave work with bags under her eyes, completely exhausted — and still wake up the next morning and do it all over again.

That was my mother too.

Not always asking to be seen, but always ready to help.

I remember her taking me to the Million Family March.

I remember the Civil Rights Freedom Tours.

And I remember being around nine years old, sitting in a living room as we watched the execution of Gary Graham unfold on live TV.

I was young, but I understood that something tragic was happening. I understood the silence and heaviness in the room. And I understood the fear in my mother’s embrace.

At the time, I did not fully understand the weight of everything she was giving me.

But she knew I needed to carry it.

At home, she had to be Mom and Dad.

She ruled her household with discipline and grace. The best of both worlds, but it was not fair that she had to carry both all the time.

She never got to be just Mom.

I know there were times I took her love for granted and treated it like something that would always be there, because to me, it always had been.

That is one of the many privileges of being loved well.

You can mistake consistency for ease.

You can mistake sacrifice for normal.

I wish I could go back and be gentler with the woman who was doing her best.

Mama, I am sorry for the times I did not see you clearly.

For the times I lashed out.

For the times I said hurtful things.

For the times I did not consider what you were carrying.

You did not deserve that.

You kept us together.

You raised us to be men.

And when I look at my life, I see your fingerprints everywhere.

Most of the parts I love about myself, I learned from you.

Before I knew how to define community, I watched you serve ours.

Before I knew how to define resilience, I watched you embody it.

Before I knew what love was, I knew your face.

You did a wonderful job.

Please do not ever look back and think you failed us because everything wasn’t perfect.

That’s the beauty in it.

No rain, no flowers.

You gave us memories that will keep us warm for the rest of our lives.

I would not trade you being my mother for anything in this world.

Thank you for being the queen of my heart.

I love you beyond time.

— William Brandon Rose