08.21.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 12:25 am by Administrator
That is the best way to describe the life my Grandmother lived. Yes, my Grandmother of whom I have written so much about, passed away on July 29. It is so hard for me to believe. I had her in my life for so long. She was 97 (and a half) years old. She was always there for me and my family, and she adored her grandchildren. My Grandmother attended every graduation and debutante ball, beamed proudly at family weddings and was the center of family reunions. She was the matriarch of our family, her church, and her community.
I think my favorite memories are from childhood. She loved to drive me and my sister into downtown Newnan, Georgia, and buy us beautiful dolls. She liked to brag about us and my brothers - as all grandparents do - and would even have me perform for her friends in her living room when I was a little girl.
The day of her funeral though, I wasn’t thinking about any of those things. As the funeral car wove around the narrow streets of her neighborhood, it dawned on me that it was the first time I had ever been to Newnan in all of my life and not been able to see my Grandmother. I became overwhelmed right before we arrived at the church. My mother wondered if I’d be able to make it through the song I was scheduled to sing at the service. It was my Grandmother’s last request of me. How could I not? Plus, anyone who knew my Grandmother knew that when she said something, she meant business. You didn’t refuse her. No, my Grandmother always got her way.
She used to irk me when she would bring up the subject of her funeral. I think she knew it bothered me, but she liked to talk about it. Once, when I was sitting with her in her kitchen years ago, she pushed some papers toward me.
“Those are my funeral arrangements,” she told me.
She insisted I read over them. I remember my only question at the time was: “Doves? You want doves?”
She stared at me and said it was someone else’s suggestion, but I know my Grandmother. She always wanted the very best. As the eulogist, my Dad’s cousin so aptly summarized, my Grandmother was a diva.
I thought about that as I admired the huge, beautiful portrait of her that stood on an easel next to her pearly, white casket. She was dressed to the hilt in the photo wearing a silk, floral dress and a matching hat. That was my Grandmother. I stared at her eyes right before I sang and imagined her telling me: “You better not mess up.”
When it was time, I stood up from the front pew and walked in slow motion toward the microphone. My throat was dry from crying, and I wasn’t 100 percent sure I’d be able to hit the high notes of “The Lord’s Prayer,” but I simply fixed my gaze on a point on the ceiling and sang for my Grandmother. I hope I made her proud. The service was just as she would have liked it. Rather formal. Not too long. Dignified.
I miss my Grandmother terribly. I know time will help heal my broken heart, but I do have peace in knowing she was ready to go. She had complained for awhile of just being tired. And in the end, facing no terminal illness or devastating diagnosis, it is as if she simply willed herself to die. My Grandmother was a very proud woman. She had recently lost her independence, and deep down, I knew she could never live like that. She had a good life. She traveled the world, met Oprah, and lived to vote for the first black President. My Grandmother lived life her way up until the end. And after all was said and done, she even had her doves.
[You can visit this link to see a special pictorial tribute to my Grandmother at: http://bit.ly/d56a8T]
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07.03.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 5:28 am by Administrator
I talked to my Grandmother yesterday. She made me get a little nostalgic.
“I wish all of us could be together this holiday,” she said softly.
The Fourth of July used to always be a time when my family would gather in Georgia at my grandparents’ house, which was really almost like everybody’s house. There, my brothers, Harold and Vincent, would help our Uncle Charles barbecue ribs on the grill while the rest of us, the women at least, got everything else together from the potato salad to my Grandmother’s famous Brunswick stew, a hearty, meaty stew that was always part of our family tradition.
On those days, excitement drifted in the air from dawn to dusk. Vincent still remembers hanging out in my grandparents’ long, windy driveway, playing with his wooden planes (he loved those as a child), while waiting for the rest of our extended family to show up. Harold remembers playing cards. My sister, Kristi, was usually somewhere quietly hiding under my mother’s skirt (she was shy as a child).
I remember how good the food was. The whole day was magical. Never mind the scorching heat and humidity. As kids, we were having too much fun to notice. Sometimes we would walk around the neighborhood after we ate, clothed in our t-shirts and shorts despite the fact our great-grandmother, Mama Willoughby, frowned on such scant attire.
“Look at those naked children,” she once said.
Those were the days.
I wish I could take my Grandmother a bowl of Brunswick stew this Fourth as a happy reminder of days gone by. Maybe one day… of course, I’ll have to figure out how to make it first.
What are your favorite memories of the Fourth of July?
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06.28.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 4:24 am by Administrator
If someone had the answer as to exactly what makes a marriage work, it would clearly be worthy of a patent. If only it were that simple. Both sets of my grandparents were married for more than 50 years. My paternal great-grandparents were married for 78 years. From what I’ve been told, they were as much, if not more, in love when they were in the upper 90’s than they were when they first married in the early 1900’s.
My parents celebrated their 48th wedding anniversary this month. That many years and four kids later, I am grateful they have provided such a wonderful model for me and my siblings. People have often sought their advice and counsel over the years. They say it boils down to really just the basics.
“You have to have a lot of patience, endurance, and lots of love,” my mother says. “You certainly have to have respect for each other. You really have to be forgiving and develop a thick skin, so you won’t be offended at what one says or does.”
It also helps to have similar interests, she points out. My Dad agrees adding that selfishness does not belong in a marriage.
“You have to have mutual understanding and mutual respect and a desire to be as concerned about the other person as you are about yourself,” he says.
Hmm, food for thought. My Grandmother, at the tender age of 97, still likes to dole out marriage advice from time to time. She says it definitely takes two to tango.
“It’s about give and take,” she says. “You can’t be too critical either… none’s perfect but the Lord.”
Amen, Grandma.
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06.09.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 6:27 pm by Administrator
So my Grandmother had a fall last week. I don’t take such things lightly. People die from those. Thank God she only fell on her shoulder. Still, at the age of 97, it was enough to have her checked into a hospital. Obviously, my family was very concerned. I felt better by Saturday though when she started saying she wanted to go home and wondered what she was doing there, but her voice sounded rather weak the next day when she finally made it back home. I was especially concerned when I found out she had slept through both breakfast and lunch. However, I was very relieved after talking to her today.
“How are you doing?”
I asked the words with trepidation, afraid she might not be feeling like her old self, excuse the pun.
“Fine,” she quipped. “How are you doing?”
She asked the question as if to say why do you ask? We didn’t talk for long. I never keep her on the phone long when she has “company,” often a family member visiting, as she did today.
“I’ll let you go, Grandmother,” I told her. “Love you.”
Her response was to put the phone down. Well, at least she didn’t hang up this time. One thing’s for sure. Grandma is back.
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05.26.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 3:12 am by Administrator
I like spending time with teenagers. Sure, the times are different now, but the issues are the same: how to deal with the opposite sex, school pressures, who are you going to take to the prom. I had so much fun when I had the opportunity not too long ago to speak to a group of students at King/Drew Medical Magnet High School in Compton, California. It was just little ole’ me standing in front of nearly 300 of them, but they and their teachers made me feel at ease. I told them about the history of black doctors in the 1800’s, and then shared with them the story of my great-grandfather, Dr. John Henry Jordan, and what life was like for him around the time he finished medical school in 1896. I showed them photos of him, his family, and his house. I touched on the life of his father-in-law, Dr. Edward Ramsey, the first black doctor in Houston. Of course, I was really into the discussion. They are my relatives, but I didn’t know how interested the students were until we opened the floor for questions.
“Why did you do all this research?”
“Why didn’t you become a doctor?”
After I explained how that would have been impossible given I am sickened at the sight of blood, I think they understood.
They asked other questions about my family and the like, but there is one question, that was asked by a serious-looking, young man, that still haunts me to this day…
“Do you think it is possible to become successful if you don’t come from a successful family?”
The question stopped me in my tracks. I was shocked, and at the same time, I wanted to run and embrace him. In what kind of a society are we living that we allow young kids to think their options are so limited? I stressed to him to never believe for an instant that his success was contingent on what his family had or didn’t have and for him to never give up on his dreams and goals no matter what they were.
I thought about it after I got home that day. Did I say enough? Did I do enough? I’m still plagued by that student’s question. He and his classmates gave me more that day than I could have ever given them. I hope they realize how much they have to offer the world. What a privilege it was to spend time with them. I think I found a gem in Compton.
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05.13.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 7:48 pm by Administrator
She’s a snazzy lady. Her perfectly manicured red fingernails, with a white, decorative flourish tell you that.
They match her blue dress and long, blue jacket. Adorned with a pearl necklace and bracelets, her outfit is topped off with glasses that have a wide, white frame trimmed in sequins.
“You haven’t seen any glasses like these, have you?” she asks in all seriousness with a slight smile on her face.
She doesn’t mean to brag or boast. She just tells it like it is.
At the tender age of 93, Thelma Taylor of Newark, New Jersey, still has her wits about her and holds her head up high.
“There’s a difference between a woman and a lady,” she explains. She personifies the latter.
As we stand in her living room on a sunny afternoon, she immediately treats me as a longtime friend even though we’ve just met.
“I love people,” she explains as she puts her right arm around my waist and holds my left hand in hers.
I had gone to her house with the intention of talking to her about Joseph Randolph, the first black president of Claflin College. He retired to Newark in the 1940’s after leaving South Carolina with his wife, my great-grandmother’s sister, Gertie. Indeed, Mrs. Taylor remembers him. She said “Uncle Joe,” as my Dad used to refer to him, was a highly esteemed man who “gave you the benefit of his wisdom.”
“He had all that education and experience,” she told me.
She recalled sitting at the feet of the man whom she says she greatly admired but was quick to point out that my aunt never had to “worry” about her spending time with him in the least. She simply looked up to them both.
“They were lovely people,” Mrs. Taylor said. “I loved them, loved to be in the presence of them.”
While I had every intention of spending the afternoon talking about my relatives, we somehow seemed to spend most of our time talking about other things. One of Mrs. Taylor’s favorite topics: her late husband, Edward.
“We were married 52 years, 11 months, and one day,” she tells me repeatedly. “Did we always agree? No. Did we ever argue? No, ma’am!”
She says it with the same emphasis each time, ending with a huge grin on her face showing off her pearly whites. She shows me pictures of him. They were in the same class at then Tennessee A & I, now known as Tennessee State University, from which they graduated in 1941 (ironically, my mother attended the same school).
Another irony: Mrs. Taylor and I hail from the same home state of Tennessee, something I’m sure Dr. Lloyd Preston Terrell could not have known when he first introduced me to Mrs. Taylor, one of his parishioners at Franklin-St. John’s United Methodist Church. Mrs. Taylor is from a small town near Jackson, about 130 miles from my hometown of Nashville. She remembers her school days fondly even though her parents couldn’t afford to pay for her to live in one of the dorms. But she says she didn’t fault them for it.
“I love them just as much,” she says emphatically. “Yes, I do.”
She majored in English - another thing she and I have in common - and wrote a play as part of her senior thesis. It sits perfectly bound today on a coffee table in her living room. The play was even performed on campus, and she had the forethought to cast Edward as her character’s husband. Wise woman.
She takes me to her library, giving me a tour of her house along the way. As we sit on the couch, my eyes wander across her vast collection of books ranging from Christian anthologies to black history. Ironically, one of the first books I pick up, Along This Way, the Autobiography of James Weldon Johnson, has an interesting inscription inside.
“From the library of Pres. and Mrs. Randolph of (Claflin) College to Edward and Thelma Taylor, Newark, New Jersey,” it reads.
A gift from my Aunt Gertie and her husband. Mrs. Taylor decides she wants to give me a book from her library but not that one. Her only hesitancy? Its condition. She would prefer to give me a newer book, one that is not so battered and worn. After I assure her it doesn’t matter and that I would treasure it, she insists on writing a new inscription in it: “… as a gift to lovely (her words, not mine) Miss Karen Jordan, May 7, 2010, with love.”
She underlines the last word twice. I couldn’t help but fall in love with Mrs. Taylor that day myself.
As we bid adieu after talking for more than an hour, she blows me kisses as I walk away. I will never forget her or her kindness. And as her 94th birthday approaches later this month, I pray that she lives to see many, many more happy ones.
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04.16.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 6:54 am by Administrator
For every problem, there is a solution. That is why I will not give up. The fight to save the state building in Tennessee that bears my Dad’s name, the Harold W. Jordan Habilitation Center, has gotten new ammunition, thanks to Cynthia Williams at Channel 4, Nashville’s NBC affiliate. Many thanks to her for the wonderful story she recently did on the subject (you can watch it at: http://www.wsmv.com/video/22870684/index.html).
As I mentioned in a previous post, more than just a name is at issue. The center also sits on the campus of Clover Bottom Hospital which will close if proposed budget cuts go through. If we let such mental health facilities close, we could be in store for a myriad of problems. In addition to hurting the patients, who so desperately need treatment, what about the employees? More than 300 jobs would be affected. How devastating that would be! I have been told that those who work at the Harold Jordan Habilitation Center pride themselves on not only habilitating the patients but forming cohesive relationships with them. I would hate to think what would happen if such a program came to an end.
So please join me in contacting Tennessee State officials including:
Governor Phil Bredesen
Governor’s Office
Tennessee State Capitol
Nashville, TN 37243-0001
Phone: (615)741-2001
Fax: (615)532-9711
Email: Phil.Bredesen@tn.gov
Tennessee State Representative Gary Odom
301 6th Avenue North, Suite 18A
Legislative Plaza
Nashville, TN 37243
Phone:(615) 741-4410
Fax (615) 741-7528
Email: rep.gary.odom@capitol.tn.gov
Thank you in advance for your help! Our efforts matter, and we must act now.
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04.13.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 1:03 am by Administrator
Some days I worry. My grandmother is not as young as she used to be. My Dad says she’s getting more and more feeble as time goes by. She is 97 years old. Still, I never want to think of being without her. Maybe I’m asking for too much, but I’d love for her to live to see the century mark. I reminded her of that when I talked to her on the phone last weekend. I mentioned it when she brought up her funeral out of the blue as she usually does.
“So let’s talk about this funeral,” she began.
“Whose funeral?”
“Mine,” she said definitively.
“I thought you were going to try to live to see 100.”
“I did have someone tell me her mother lived to be 120,” she said thoughtfully.
I finally got her mind off of all the funeral talk by turning the conversation to one of her friends. Apparently, she thought my line of questioning was a little too nosy.
“I stopped asking people their business,” she finally told me. “If they want you to know, they’ll tell you.”
That’s my grandmother. She tells it like it is.
I finally looked at the clock, realizing it was approaching nine o’clock Eastern time, past her bedtime.
“Well, are you about to go to bed?”
I had to sort of scream the question (her hearing’s getting bad).
“I’m in the bed.”
“Oh, I’ll let you go to sleep then. I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
“Okay,” she said.
She didn’t argue with me as she does some nights, so I knew that meant she was ready to go to sleep. I ended the conversation the way I always do.
“Love you,” I screamed.
All I heard was a click as she hung up the phone. Oh, well. I’m not offended. I know she loves me too.
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03.05.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 4:33 pm by Administrator
It’s more than a name. I’m talking about a building. It has been 20 years now since the Dr. Harold W. Jordan Habilitation Center in my hometown of Nashville was named for my Dad. He is an extremely modest man and is not one to ever brag about this fact. Many people who know him do not even know about the building. In fact, he would be incensed with me if he knew I was writing about what my family calls “his building.” The kind staff there takes it upon themselves to honor my Dad in some way every year. The building was so named after he served the state of Tennessee as its first black Commissioner of Mental Health and Mental Retardation. I bring all of this up because of my concern about a rumor. There is talk these days that due to budget cuts, the building bearing my Dad’s name may soon be no more. I understand budget cuts - I realize every state is having them - but there are some services, to me, that are not optional. The Harold W. Jordan Habilitation Center and Cloverbottom, another mental health facility located next to it which is also rumored to close, together serve more than 300 patients.
Statistics show that mental illnesses are common, about one in four adults over the age of 18 suffer from a mental illness, according to the National Institute of Mental Health. A “Global Burden of Disease” study, presented by Harvard University, the World Bank, and the World Health Organization, also shows that mental illness “accounts for over 15 percent of the burden of disease in established market economies, such as the United States… more than the disease burden caused by all cancers.”
We cannot let facilities helping the mentally ill be torn down. The consequences of such a move are too great, and as the statistics show, it is not someone else’s problem. It is all of ours. So please join me in writing, e-mailing, or calling Tennessee State officials including:
Governor Phil Bredesen
Governor’s Office
Tennessee State Capitol
Nashville, TN 37243-0001
Phone: (615)741-2001
Fax: (615)532-9711
Email: Phil.Bredesen@tn.gov
Commissioner Virginia Trotter Betts
Department of Mental Health and Mental Disabilities
Central Office
425 Fifth Avenue North
3rd Floor Cordell Hull Bldg
Nashville, Tennessee 37243-0675
(615) 532-6500
oc.tdmhdd@tn.gov (Office of Communications)
Thank you in advance, friends, and if you see my Dad, don’t tell him I told you!
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02.22.10
Posted in Uncategorized at 3:30 am by Administrator
Some things make you smile. That’s exactly what I did when I found out my little niece, Katy, had written a class paper about Dr. John Henry Jordan, her great-great-grandfather, my great-grandfather. I was so pleased I just beamed into the phone as she told me about it. The conversation went something like this:
“Katy, whose idea was it for you to write a paper about John Henry Jordan: yours or your parents?”
“Um…”
She wasn’t sure when I asked, but my brother, Harold, tells me she came up with the idea all by her little self!
“What did your class think?”
“They liked it,” she told me.
“Where did you get the information from?”
“Your website,” she said.
I laughed at that. I didn’t even know she knew I had one.
“My dad showed it to me,” she explained.
I smiled again. I sometimes wonder what my great-grandfather, I like to refer to him as JHJ, would think of his family if he could see us now. He died at such a young age, he was only 42, and had no idea whether his then 12-year-old son, my grandfather, would marry much less have children and grandchildren of his own. From the loins of my grandfather, JHJ’s only son who survived infancy, were born four children, eight grandchildren, and ten great-grandchildren and counting. I realize my brother’s children are too young to fully comprehend what John Henry Jordan accomplished as the first black doctor in Coweta County, Georgia, near Atlanta. Someone I was talking to just yesterday asked me in what year he finished medical school. The person was shocked when I said 1896.
I am so proud of my eleven-year-old niece for wanting to explore a little fragment of his life at her young age (I didn’t write my first paper about my great-grandfather until I was in high school). I am also equally proud of her sister, Rachel, and her brother, Christopher. I’m sure my great-grandfather would be too.
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