My words often guide and nourish people. I take the responsibility of pouring into others seriously, even before I fully understood what that meant. As a woman of words, I have to admit: I’ve got some good stuff. But what many people don’t know is that some of my good stuff came before me, from my mother.
If you read my Mother’s Day reflection, you might remember how I described her as the artist to my sculpture. That shaping is ever present in my voice. It lives in my phrasing. In my boldness. In my truth telling. This week, I’ll be honoring some of the wisdom this brilliant woman poured into me with a series I call: “My Mom Said It First.”
When I was a teenager, my younger brother played basketball. He’d been playing since elementary school. Apparently, as you get older, sports become more intense, I wouldn’t know. I was a theatre kid, much more into singing, acting, writing, and designing clothes.
Anyway, there came a time when he needed private coaching. I didn’t understand the full process, but I understood enough to know that figuring out next steps wasn’t easy for my parents. My brother wasn’t the most communicative, but one day he gave my mom something to work with: the name of a coach who could potentially work with him, emphasis on potentially. The coach was hard to reach, had a full roster, and wasn’t exactly easy to book.
All my mother heard was potential.
The coach was based at a gym my brother frequented, and my mom, being who she is, went looking for him. She was relentless. She refused to give up. She was going to speak to that man. Of course, as a teenager, I thought she was doing the most. But like most teenagers, I was oh ye of little vision.
Somehow, some way, she got to him. Next thing I knew, my brother was signed up. He was surprised. I was impressed.
I told her, “Wow, you really didn’t give up.”
Without missing a beat, she said one of the most defining things I’ve ever heard: “Asking won’t kill you. The worst they can say is no.”
That stuck.
I am someone who has a long history of talking myself out of things before I ever ask, apply, or take up space. I hesitate. I overthink. I disqualify myself before the world ever gets the chance. I’ve been growing out of that well into adulthood.
But, the times I was audacious, I always carried my mother’s mantra:“The worst they can say is no.”
It showed up when I co-launched a Black History Club at a predominantly white high school, and went on to write and direct a play on our theatre stage. It showed up at university, when I became President of the African Students Association and took up space during my tenure. It showed up when I requested double class enrollment so I could graduate on time from Howard. It showed up when I started my business, Touch of a Queen, running on vision and fumes and the boldness she taught me.
My mother’s words, her actions, her tenacity, they nudge me often. Even in her absence, her voice is still a force. I remember how it has gotten her thousands of miles from the village she grew up in, into rooms someone that looked sounded and believed like her may not have been welcome, purchasing her first home, and embodying what it means to be limitless.
Due to my own struggles with fear I didn’t always believe her. But over time, I learned that asking doesn’t make you foolish, it makes you brave. Rejection is rarely fatal, but regret lingers long. So I ask now. Boldly, sometimes bracing myself, sometimes courageously.
Because the worst they can say is no. My mother was right.
