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From the forward by Marian Wright Edelman:
I did not come into or get through this life alone. Neither did you. Our mothers had to push to get us here. I have always wanted to be half as good, half as brave, and half as faithful as my mother and the great women like her in my community. They represented countless unsung lives of grace, women who carry on day-in and day-out, trying to keep their families, churches, and communities together and to instill by example the enduring values of love, hard work, discipline, and courage.
The mothers writing in this anthology speak in a range of voices. They are joyful, stressed, grateful, ambivalent, determined, disappointed, and, in bad ways and good, overwhelmed. But over and over again in their stories we see mothers struggling with the push: striving to give their children their best and to make sure the world gives their children its best, hard as that fight may be. I am inspired by these mothers just as I am inspired by the hundreds of thousands of other black mothers who work every day to give their children, too, the best they can.
I am convinced that women—mothers and grandmothers—will lead the way, and black mothers and grandmothers can set a special example. Black mothers have always been ready and willing to do whatever it takes to transform the world for our children. Our children and all children need us now more than ever.
From the Introduction by Cecelie S. Berry:
The isolation that motherhood sometimes imposes is meant to make you be still, so that you can hear the melodies and cadences of your life. It is meant to help you refine your purpose and resuscitate your spirit so that you might better know yourself and guide your children. It is immensely useful to be alone; to turn your back on the world for a while; to build with love the home and the family of your dreams is the ultimate revolution. As you do, you march forward, shoulder to shoulder with other mothers, as we connect the dots, bear witness, share the wisdom, give thanks, express the love, remember, forgive, endure, and rise up singing.
An excerpt from one story, Ernestine: A Granddaughter's Memories by Jewell Parker Rhodes:
Grandmother Ernestine was born in Georgia, raised in a rural backwater ("way down the road from Athens," she would say) with clear, blue skies, in a huge house with a screened-in porch, and a half-acre of pecan trees in the backyard.
"We didn't live in these nasty, brick houses with cement for backyards. Many black folks held land in the South. Come North, we rent, struggle, trying to make a fair dollar. We go to stores to buy our greens."
Grandmother always told me stories about this southern heritage I had. Telling me, passing down tales, was her way of making it real for me. Telling was her way of keeping it real for herself. It wasn't until Grandmother died, that I realized how out-of-place she must've felt in Pittsburgh. What lure was there in steep hills covered with brick and steel trolley rails? What ease in a land of more rain and snow than was good for her arthritis-stricken hands and knees? What pleasure in soot cascading from the steel mills' furnaces? Even for Easter services, Grandmother never wore white.
"What sense?" she'd ask. "When it'll only turn gray. Now, in Georgia—"
I'd groan, "Not another Georgia story."
"—white stayed white. White shoes. White gloves. White pearls."
It didn't matter where you were—in the basement shoveling coal, in the kitchen, making designs with your breakfast grits. Or, outside on the front steps, trying to suck salt sprinkled on ice cubes. Grandma told stories. Didn't matter if she told you before. Didn't matter if you didn't want to hear it. Telling tales seemed Grandmother's mission in life. Her grandchildren, especially, had to hear her tales.
Read an excerpt from Rise Up Singing
Read more about Rise Up Singing
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