In 1944, my mother was born into a segregated America. By the time she had me in 1967, Detroit erupted in five days of unrest. As flames engulfed the city and National Guard tanks rolled down Grand River Avenue, my great-grandmother watched history unfold through her window. Those days, fueled by systemic racism and economic inequality, were our family's lived reality, a stark reminder of how far we had to go.
My mother navigated this world not with quiet acceptance, but with fierce determination. When employers attempted to sexually harass her, she stood her ground. When companies discriminated against her because she was Black, either refusing to hire her or wrongfully terminating her employment, she didn't just walk away: she sued, and she won. These weren't moments of quiet resilience, but of powerful resistance, shaped by an unshakeable sense of self-worth that no discriminatory law could diminish.
Despite recently discovering she's 60% white – a revelation that shocked her but perhaps wouldn't surprise those familiar with her look and with America's racial history – she has always strongly identified as Black. Her experience embodies the "one drop rule," a racist policy designed to maintain white supremacy by classifying anyone with any African ancestry as Black. Yet like so many aspects of racial oppression, it has failed to diminish her pride in her Black identity or her sense of self.
The Civil Rights Act of 1964 passed during my mother's junior year of college. The Voting Rights Act of 1965 ensured her voice would count at the polls, though many forget that Black women's voting rights, technically granted by the 19th Amendment in 1920, weren't meaningfully secured until this act eliminated discriminatory barriers. The Fair Housing Act of 1968 meant my parents could buy their first home without facing legal discrimination, though subtle barriers persisted.
In 1967, my mother began pursuing her master's degree while my parents were raising me. Roe v. Wade gave her autonomy over her body – a right whose importance she understood through haunting stories she heard growing up. By the time Jimmy Carter's campaign filled our home with peanut memorabilia in 1976, these rights had become part of our family's foundation.
What's remarkable about my mother's journey is that she has never seen herself as without rights – and why would she? Her great-great-grandfather, William H. Davis, was the first African American to run for governor of West Virginia, doing so in 1888 as the Union Labor Party candidate. She comes from a legacy of claiming space at democracy's table. She knows these rights are hers and fights for them accordingly. She isn't grateful for these legal opportunities; she expects them, seizes them, and thrives. This isn't about quiet dignity in the face of discrimination; it's about confronting injustice head-on and winning.
I come from a legacy of powerful, strong women. My maternal grandmother demonstrated remarkable entrepreneurial spirit by starting businesses later in life. My paternal grandmother, despite being valedictorian but unable to afford college textbooks, became a nurse in the 1970s and went on to found and lead the Michigan Institute of Child Development, growing it to six campuses. Under her leadership the institution educated over 10,000 children and became known for connecting students with notable Detroit leaders, from congressmen to judges and city officials. Her sister – my great aunt – co-founded Motown Records, where her rare gift of perfect pitch and deep understanding of musical theory helped shape the sound of American music. She signed legends like Stevie Wonder, and wrote, transcribed and arranged the songs that would become the foundation of the Motown empire.
My mother enforced my intellectual capabilities early, teaching me to read at age three so that I was reading to my classmates at 4 and 5. When schools attempted to make assumptions about my abilities rather than test my actual prowess, she advocated fiercely on my behalf, teaching me by example how to stand up for myself. Throughout my career – from the legal field as a practicing attorney to Wall Street as an institutional sales trader, and more recently as a corporate leader – I've faced battles eerily similar to hers: racial discrimination, sexual harassment, systemic barriers. And just as she did and continues to do, I've spoken up, never backed down, and when necessary, utilized the legal system to fight for my rights.
My mother's strength and determination, built upon generations of powerful women before her, created a world for me that was rife with freedoms and choices. These weren't privileges to be grateful for, but fundamental expectations to be demanded and defended. That's the torch I now carry.
Now, watching relentless attacks on both voting access and women's rights, seeing reproductive freedoms stripped away, and witnessing attempts to roll back educational equity, I understand why my mother approaches every barrier as a battle to be won. These rights weren't just granted – they were fought for, won through determination and legal action, protected by continuous vigilance. The current assault on these freedoms isn't just political theater; it's a direct threat to the progress that transformed my mother's life and shapes mine.
We stand at a crossroads that my mother recognizes all too well. The choice before us isn't just about policies or parties – it's about whether we'll protect the progress that transformed one generation's lives or allow those transformative rights to be stripped away. My mother's journey from legal discrimination to hard-won equality spans a single lifetime. That progress was neither inevitable nor is it irreversible.
Thank you, Mom!
We're not going back.
Seanne
Comments