"SHE WOULD BE THERE FOR ME IN THE MORNING"

 “SHE WOULD BE THERE FOR ME IN THE MORNING”

My mother Mary Stroupe’s birthday is May 24 – she was born at home in Byhalia, Mississippi, in 1919, born to a close-knit family structure.  Most of her relatives were farmers, but her father owned a store in Byhalia.  When she was in high school, her mother died of ovarian cancer in 1934, and her family went to live with her paternal grandparents.  Mother was an excellent student and was valedictorian of her high school class when she graduated in 1937.  She was smart enough to go to college, and she wanted to go to college, but it was during the Depression, so there was no money for her to do that.  Instead she went to cosmetology school in Memphis.

She graduated from there and began working in Memphis as a beauty operator, while dating a young man Bob Buford in Byhalia.  After my mother’s death in 2004, I found letters from Bob to her, and they were looking forward to getting married after World War II was over.  He had gone to Europe and went to pilot’s school to be able to fly missions in the war.  In 1944, Mother received a terrible letter from one of Bob’s relatives – he was missing in action somewhere over France.  I don’t know if his body was ever recovered, but it was a second huge blow to Mother.  First her mother, now her fiancé.

My father fought in World War II, but I have no idea where.  Sometime after he returned to Byhalia from the War, my mother started dating him, and they were married on Christmas Day, 1945.  They soon became pregnant with me, and I was born eleven months later in November (yes, I counted the months).  My father abandoned my mother and me soon after my birth, a third huge blow to her.  Although he made child support payments somewhat regularly, I never heard from him or saw him until I was 23.

So, my mother was it for me, and I am so grateful to her for stepping in that breach and raising me with a fierce and deep love.  We never talked much about my father – apparently he had left my mother for another woman.  On one level, I regret that, because there is a lot that I do not know and will never know now.  Yet, I do know that she became both mother and father to me, and she relied on that Southern style family structure.  When I was an infant, we moved to Helena, Arkansas, to live with my mother’s grandmother’s sister named Bernice Higgins, who was a widow by that time.  I called her “Gran,” and though she was technically my great-great aunt, she functioned much more like my grandmother until her death in 1959 (on May 20, so this is a big week in my family history!)

I owe my mother much of my life because of her love and dedication to raising me.  The title for this blog comes from the closing of Harper Lee’s powerful novel “To Kill a Mockingbird,” in which Lee describes Atticus Finch protecting his son Jem who was threatened the night before.  I’ve adapted it for Mother, and I’ve always felt this way about all of her gifts to me.  Indeed, I’m pulling a “Scout” from “To Kill a Mockingbird,” by writing a memoir about Mother and me, with the main difference being that I am writing about a real person.  That memoir is now in the process of being edited by folk at Wipf and Stock Press, and if all goes well, it should be out for publication late this summer.  It is about our personal journey together, but it is also about our engaging the powers of Southern white supremacy and patriarchy – race, gender, class, sexual orientation, militarism and many others.  

    The title is “She Made a Way:  Mother and Me in a Deep South World.” Plan to get your copy, and I’ll be glad to do a book signing for you and for any groups with whom you are associated.  I am delighted to honor my mother this way, but I am also delighted to tell our story as we journey from mother and son, to mother and young adult, to mother and daughter-in-law, to mother and grandchildren, to our then switching roles, as I became the manager of our relationship as she aged and got the lung cancer which has plagued all of the Armour family.  This was all in the context of my beginning to seek liberation from those forces of oppression of Southern white supremacy and patriarchy – Mother and I both clashed and learned from one another, as we made this treacherous journey together.  

    As I reflect in the book, it was indeed a treacherous journey, but it was eased so much by my mother’s tenacity and love.  She made a way, and in this week, I give thanks for her!