Happy 100th Birthday in Heaven to My 'Mama Who Spoke Yiddish & Jazz'*
Greetings!
As I come off of an unplanned but much needed recharging break, please join me in wishing a Happy 100th Birthday in Heaven to the woman who was not only the world’s greatest mother, but whose wisdom, heart, and guidance laid the unshakable foundation for my evolution—including my Mixed identity journey.
Rosalyn Stone (ibaye) is the main reason that I have never been confused, conflicted, sad, or afflicted with the tragic that is a defining factor in so many Mixed folks’ journeys.
Here is a short list of the ways in which she ensured strong, grounded, healthy identities for my brother and myself:
While her siblings encouraged her to leave the mainland and raise my light-skinned brother and I in Hawaii where our phenotypical ambiguity might enable us to deny the Blackness in our Ancestry and DNA, she steadfastly refused. Instead, she raised us in a predominantly Black-and-Mixed “inner city” community created through redlining and made culturally rich through the diverse array of folks in our neighborhood.
My mother refused to deny her own heritage, even when encouraged or straight-up pressured to do so. This happened often as a young woman in the workforce, when the white men who were interviewing or supervising her recommended that she change her obviously Jewish surname and even offered to pay for her to “fix” her ethnic nose. She turned them all down and made her way in the world with her name, her nose, and her pride intact.
Mom was straightforward and matter of fact when discussing matters of race and identity with my brother and me. She pulled no punches, played no games, and didn’t allow others to do those things to herself or her children. We knew our Ancestry and had no illusions about where we fit into a world that was (and remains) both racist and antisemitic.
She had a fascinating and sometimes hilarious habit of pointing out both Black and Jewish people in the public eye who were passing. In casual conversation, she would out countless movie stars, singers, and other celebrities who had changed their names (and, often, their noses) to pass for gentile, as well as Blackfolks who were passing for white. I’m not sure whether it was intentional, but the message I took from her was clear: Passing in any form is not only unacceptable, but you’ll never get away with it—anyone with a working brain and sharp eyes will find you out!
Rosalyn Stone was an unapologetic nonconformist. She lived with our Black jazz musician father, Kelly, prior to marriage—in the 1950s. She handled an unwanted pregnancy with an (illegal) abortion. She proudly worked in the Naval shipyards during World War II. By living life on her own terms and never letting anyone define her, she inspired my brother and I to do the same.
Mom was a kitchen magician, who mastered many kinds of cuisine. Before their divorce, our father (also a great cook) taught her to prepare soul food the way he liked it—and it was so delicious that many Blackfolks looked forward to her collard greens, candied yams, and yes, even chitlins. When I brought home an Ethiopian boyfriend, she mastered Doro Wat from scratch, and when my brother brought home a Filipina girlfriend, Mom quickly threw down on the Lumpia and Chicken Adobo. Food was her love language, and she welcomed everyone into her kitchen with classic Yiddishe Mama energy—you would be fed whether or not you came in hungry! And thanks to her talents, you would always enjoy the meal.
When holidays came around—her birthday, Mother’s Day, etc., and I asked what kind of gift she wanted, her first request was always for a poem. I wrote dozens, but this one was inspired by an unforgettable line in Lisa Jones Brown’s brilliant memoir, Bulletproof Diva: Tales of Race, Sex, and Hair (the first #BLEWISH memoir I’d ever seen). Lisa, the daughter of two literary icons —Amiri Baraka and Hettie Jones—described her mom as “A mama who speaks Yiddish and jazz.”
I had never in my life seen any line that so perfectly described my own amazing mother, and I immediately reached out to Lisa for permission to use her description in a poetic tribute to my mother (and many references since).
Here is the collage I gave her with the poem I gave her for Mother’s Day 1994:
A Mama Who Speaks Yiddish and Jazz By TaRessa Stovall She belongs to herself, a spirit that moves like quiet fire and takes her everywhere… She is the child of Russians who fled their motherland on foot to find new life in a new world, a woman who erases colorlines just by being her genuine self, a mother who broke the constraints of the day and gave birth to rainbows after the storm. She speaks Yiddish and jazz, cooks collard greens and chitlins flavored with matzoh ball humor and salami-on-rye sensibilities blends cultures into a be-bop gumbo while jammin’ to a very smooth groove… Her love embraces and transcends color, demanding authenticity she gathers her spirit around her and steps over boundaries as if they aren’t there. She married the music and danced with the man till his song was too blue, too discordant, too fractured to really be jazz. The sings love and truth in a blend of rhythms so unique it can only be a transplanted Egyptian jazz-loving soul here to teach us a new world beat. She’s a Mama who speaks Yiddish and jazz, a Baubie who serves brownies and snowflakes with generous dollops of common sense and a heap of wisdom on the side. She’s a woman both of and ahead of her time a steadfast soul with a gentle voice and a smile like moonbeams to light your way. She gave me the yesterday to build my todays, now my children will lay their tomorrows on the foundation of her life, and when thehy speak of her to their children, they will say, “Put your heart to the wind and if you listen carefully, you can feel the spirit of a Mama who speaks Yiddish and jazz. Copyright TaRessa Stovall 1994
Beautiful tribute. As always with your offerings, I read every word.
A powerful daughter from a powerful mother