It took going to Mississippi in my 50s to understand life for her growing up in Mississippi in the 50s.

Alberta Williams grew up in Darling, Mississippi.  By the time she was 9 years-old she completely understood the social order of the south. A forward thinker, she was convinced this life of unequal conditions for American Black people should be different.   

She shared a lot of stories with me that began with “when I was growing up in the south.” I listened. I learned how much she understood politics, and our history. She never marched in demonstrations, but she did believe in the right to vote. Living conditions were an ongoing struggle for most working-class families. She did not talk much about it; but more about doing something about it. In the meantime, she did not aggressively teach us to hate based on skin color.

She believed people should live, work, and become whatever they had the ability to accomplish or achieve. She did not like the fact that Black people could not vote in Mississippi, and there were no Black people to vote for.

When young Emmet Till was murdered in Mississippi , my parents had moved to St. Louis Missouri. A few years after my birth, and brother Stanley, they relocated to Omaha, Nebraska.

On a road trip to Santa Barbara, she shared with me their reasons for leaving Mississippi. She said their earning potential was limited by the people who controlled the land they helped to manage. She also said there were white men elected by white people who could hang her sons at sunset or abuse her daughters in broad daylight. She said she did not want that to ever happen.

Like many people in the same situation, they departed from Mississippi in the middle of the night and never returned.

I remember watching the Kennedy-Nixon election night returns with her. Regular programming was interrupted on our black and white Zenith television as she held onto her Kennedy for President sticker. She celebrated with a quiet private excitement that she voted, and no one could stop her in Nebraska.

A few years later this young lady turned 18 during the Carter-Ford campaign for President.

It would be my first time. I was taking with me images of people who looked like me. People who were denied the right to register or vote for no other reason other than they “looked like me”.  I walked in, was handed the the registration form and instructed to simply “complete it”. When election day arrived. I voted.  No tear gas, no demonstrations, or violent police hiding behind a badge with extreme hatred on their breath.

There was no problem for me.  I was never whacked on the head with a police officer’s riot stick or slammed against a wall by a high-powered fire hose or chased by trained attacks dogs. But it did not mean I did not feel any pain for the courageous people who did.

The next election night return with my Mother would be a history making event in November 2008. Having shared her dream to see a Black man run for president, it was exhilarating and very scary at the same time.

Ms. Alberta was now in her early 80s and used a wheelchair to get around the house. She still loved to prepare full meals. People would often say ” You let your Mother cook all the meals, what do you do? I said I eat them.

Promoting their candidate made them feel apart of the journey. It was so exciting for her and Jim to wear “YES WE CAN” shirts and hats. They posted yard signs and displayed the bumper stickers proudly. She made sure they voted early. Another layer to this story is the fact that former first Lady Michelle Obama’s maiden name is Robinson. The same as my Mother’s.  Years ago, my Mother had an Uncle Sylvester who left Mississippi for Illinois and said he would never return. Her Uncle Sylvester settled on Chicago’s southside. My Mother was convinced she was somehow related to Michelle Robinson Obama. She convinced a friend of mine to research her family lineage. He was able to pull information in the beginning but soon was denied any access for obvious reasons. 

Election night dragged on as we sat counting down the states, and adding up the electoral votes. We celebrated in 2008 like the rest of the world. I believe there were companies positioned to become instant millionaires with the marketing of the first Black President. It was indeed a dream vote. Everyone who was in the manufacturing business made something with President Barak Obama’s image. I believe my Mother purchased most of the items. She purchased dinner plates, placemats, family photos, cups, towels; I drew the line on the shower curtain.

Four years later we were together again for re-election watch night. It was a repeat. I was so hopeful he was going to win again.  I said I was going to lay down for a moment.  Soon I heard her calling my name from room 1…

I just laid there a little longer. Her voice grew louder, and I got a little nervous. As I walked down the hallway I glanced over at her wheelchair. She was not in it. My eyes shifted quickly to the wall. There she was holding herself us. Taking one slow step at a time coming towards the doorway to my room. She was now much louder and slightly screaming for me. He WON! He won again. He won again.

That was the most beautiful sight I will cherish in my memory for as long as I live.

FC Hickombottom