White Socks

The brightness of the ceiling light had awakened me to a nightmare. I lay there dazed by the night, the glare of the light, and the popcorn paint of my grandmother’s ceiling. My mother was sitting at the edge of the bed, hemorrhaging, blood pouring from her wrists and upper thighs. I could see the dark of night through the bedroom window and the light of the street lamp. And my mother, just sitting there, disconnected and totally unfazed by the blood. There she sat, counting her fingers aloud, using the index finger of one hand to singularly touch the fingers of the other hand. My eyes raced around the room, searching for understanding of what had transpired. My eyes fixed on the bloody blade resting next to her. I could not understand what was happening but I was afraid—afraid of the unknown, afraid for me and my brother, afraid for my mother.

I gently woke my younger brother who was sleeping alongside me and my mother in the king size bed. My brother and I exited the bed to the left, carefully walked around the foot of the bed, and quietly passed our mother who was still sitting there with this bizarre look on her face, all the while bleeding and counting. I hurried us up the burgundy-carpeted hallway to my grandmother’s bedroom. Her room was no more than 20 feet away, but the distance seemed interminable. I shook my grandmother awake and beckoned for her to help. I still hear my grandmother’s voice as she entered the bedroom from which my brother and I had just fled…the consternation in her tone as she called out my mother’s name and asked her what she had done.

This was not an isolated event, as my childhood years were marked by a mother who had made several attempts to end her own life. Her nightstand was routinely decorated with antidepressant, anxiolytic, and antipsychotic medications. She would return home from one inpatient treatment just to be readmitted for another overdose or suicide attempt. She was seemingly in constant emotional turmoil, detached from reality. This time, this night, however, was exceptionally different. There was the one time our weeknight church service had been interrupted with notice of my mother being rushed to the hospital to have her stomach pumped. She’d overdosed on pills, a dreadful event in and of itself, but still not quite as remarkable as this night. When she’d overdosed on the pills, I had not physically been there to see her illness at work … had not experienced the horror first hand … had no visual images to long to erase. This time, this night, however, was definitely different and a time I’d never forget.

Long before the birth of our modern day supers and their super villains lived my grandmother, this super bad ass powerhouse of a woman standing tall against the challenges of everyday real life and looking flawless all the while doing so. Dolan Hudson was the kind of woman that superheroes are crafted from and lyrical beats are set to. She was the epitome of strength and her day-to-day life spoke to ballads like Chaka Khan’s I’m Every Woman. Indeed, Dolan walked to the beat of her own drum. She was resilient, indestructible, and a way maker. As far back as I can remember, she’d always had this robust figure and these big hands that told a story of their own, a story of tireless hours spent working in the fields in the deep south of Georgia, picking cotton. Born in 1925, this woman had known hard work and had surely faced her own share of hard times. Nevertheless, I never heard her complain, never saw my grandmother cry, never saw her bend at the mercy of difficulty, never saw her buckle under pressure. We’re all born fearless, but I’m convinced Dolan had sprung forth from her mother’s womb cloaked in a brilliant red cape that galloped in the wind behind her. She was unwavering, simply extraordinary.

My grandmother loved God in this absolutely crazy way. Her faith was her anchor, the very foundation by which she cultivated life and love. As a child, I’d sit with her on her front porch, eating from the pits of these huge, richly sweet watermelons and listen to her talk of God. She’d talk about Him like He was this person she’d hang out with, shucking collards and shelling peas. She didn’t quote scripture, chapter, or verse. She spoke, instead, of God like she’d met Him before and had sat face-to-face with Him, sipping coffee and reminiscing of times past. She spoke of Him in this deeply personal way, like He was this chill friend that she could call up and crack jokes with or that neighbor she could borrow a cup of sugar from. My grandmother had this intimate relationship with God that spoke to her super powers and ability to brave the world. According to my grandmother, He was this lily of the valley and her bridge over troubled waters.

I remember having this little suitcase that read Going to Grandma’s. Even at such a young age, I’d often think this suitcase should simply read Grandma’s as that’s where my brother and I spent the bulk of our earliest years. My father was busily chasing the next youngest skirt tail, so my maternal grandmother took care of my brother and me. My grandparents had strategically bought my mother a home only one street over from theirs, so the frequent transitions between my mother’s home and grandparents’ were physically easy but not any less emotionally taxing. There was no change in school zone, no disruption in the bus I’d get on, no friendships to forcibly end and new ones to begin. There was just the corrosive effect of my mother’s mental illness that could not be displaced by geography.

With eight children and thirteen grandchildren in and out of the house, Dollie—what I grew to call my grandmother— cooked all the time. (I didn’t know what it meant to eat out until college.) And as the youngest granddaughter, my post was in the kitchen. On Friday nights, I helped clean the freshly caught catfish, and on any other given day, I was peeling and dicing potatoes, washing greens, shelling early peas, or deep frying chicken. There was no such thing as a dishwasher. That beautiful gadget was the set of hands God had given me, this commercial size Joy® brand dish detergent, and a dishcloth. If I wasn’t helping to cook, my step stool and I were elbow deep washing dishes. We Hudsons were a big family, and with the majority of her children living only minutes away from her doorstep, my grandmother’s home was our core— the gathering place, the heart of the Hudson family. And her kitchen was its soul.

Dolan had the natural tendency to cook these extra large meals—two different kinds of meats, on average four vegetables, and at minimum two breads (with one of those breads certain to be cornbread). She cooked in these industrial style, restaurant sized pots and pans. There was always more than enough. Dollie lived out a simple philosophy. We are our brother’s keeper. All of Tenth Street and the surrounding neighborhoods respected Mrs. Hudson, as she fed everyone and genuinely cared about every single person. I loved helping her cook (even had a couple of aprons to complement hers), enjoyed helping her fix plates, and actually understood, even then, the impact my grandmother had on other people’s lives as I’d run those hot plates up and down Tenth Street. Every day with Dolan was subject to the principles of a soup kitchen or Meals on Wheels. What she had, she shared, and what she didn’t have, she’d create. Before I knew what the word philanthropy meant or what it meant to be a humanitarian, there was my grandmother. Though never presented with any accolades or interviewed to tell her story, this amazing woman lived a life that speaks to the values, discipline, and calling of our modern day hero. Dolan was a trailblazer and, as interesting as it might sound, changed lives right there through the gift of her kitchen. She fed people that otherwise would have gone hungry, a humbling act of kindness and evidence of God’s grace. As one of the most revered elders of our neighborhood, Dolan instilled in me this principle that I call the Hudson Way: "You must have enough food on hand to whip up a meal in case the pastor drops by." Translation: It’s cool to have enough for you and yours, but it’s life-changing to provide for someone else.

By age eleven, I could whip up a complete Dolan-style meal, a faculty that would serve me well in my adult life and in my relationships. More importantly, I had begun to pattern my personality and character after that of my grandmother. Life with my parents and life following their divorce was turbulent, constant theatrics at best. My grandmother, however, was this symbol of peace. One of the things I cherished most about her was her genuine care for others. Dolan cared for total strangers, something that I believe had to do with her own beginnings. My grandmother was from the small community of Matthews, Georgia, home of a little more than one hundred people. I can only imagine that in such a close-knit population nearly everyone is regarded as family and treated as such. Dolan would welcome a total stranger into her home, allow him or her to sit at her table, and she would feed them. I mean, there is just something personal about someone eating at your table…not to mention, that someone being someone you don’t know.

This amazing woman believed we were all God’s chillen, and it was God’s will that we treat one another as such. I’d watch as Dolan handed out the last dollar she’d secretly stashed away in her bra. She wasn’t the least worried about where that money would in turn come from or how the next bill would be paid. Dolan knew God to be Jehovah Jireh, a constant provider. She’d brought my cousins, my brother, and me up in a traditional Southern Baptist church where the deacons raised hymns in worship and actually got down on their knees to pray. And on any given day, the pastor, himself, could be found visiting with the sick and shut in. Dolan was grounded, rooted in her faith, and, accordingly, so were we. (This was simply not a negotiable thing in the Hudson house. You loved God. Period. No discussion.) My grandmother was a good person. I loved this woman and everything she stood for. Hard working, strong-willed, strong-minded, smart, caring, and loving. And her smile … she had this smile that was as delightful as the peppermint candy she’d quietly slip me during church service. Amid the unpredictables afforded to us by this thing called life, I am confident I could not have chosen a more spirited person from whom to pattern my life. In my grandmother, I saw God’s truest, purest, most human form. I grabbed hold of this and used it to shape the cornerstones of my being.

In the eyes of Dolan Hudson, three things of absolute no compromise were God, discipline, and education. Phenomenal she was, and likewise, an enforcer. Dolan had seen her own fair share of struggles and had worked hard to pave the way for our generation to not ever meet her adversities. I remember the stories my grandmother used to tell me as I was seated on her burgundy carpet, legs crossed one over the other, her greasing my scalp. I’d always had this long, thick, coarse hair (aka nappy hair), and my scalp was oftentimes layered with what my grandmother called growing dandruff. This time together was a ritualistic process and time well spent as Dolan would use a small-tooth comb to scratch up my dandruff, lifting the itchy nuisance from the base of my scalp and gliding it along the shaft of my hair until the worn towel draping my shoulders was sprinkled with silver flakes. She’d then apply a fresh layer of grease to my scalp. As I sat at her feet, Dolan would live out loud with me the memories of her having to pick cotton, sometimes with her children working alongside her. By the age of 18, my grandmother had married and given birth to her first child, so work was this very real presence in her life. Beyond the fields, she’d worked for decades as an orderly at Gracewood State School and Hospital. Her experiences, her life, her work spoke to Horace Mann’s position on education as the great equalizer.¹ Day in and