You started your life on a Mississippi plantation in 1914, born into sharecropping. You came to Chicago not much older than I am now, found a middle class job and were active with the union. You raised two beautiful children, including my mother Rochelle and my Uncle Lawrence, who was gunned down by police the year I was born. You saw so many men in our family succumb to drugs and violence and The Hustle. Knowing how precarious black lives are in this country, you spent much of the 13 years we shared teaching me lessons you hoped would help me survive. I only knew you as a stout, ancient matriarch with a low tolerance for bullshit and a strong southern accent. I never gave much thought then to the young coffee brown woman I saw in old pictures, courtly and clad in lovely fur coats and hats. But when I look at those pictures now, I'm struck by your dignity. I can see the strength that you passed on to my mother and my siblings. Your life ended in a North Side hospital. Your cheeks were still warm when I kissed them and hugged you. You had told us with some of your last words to love and build each other up in your absence. In other words, to live by your example. We have a lot to live up to. Every thought of you is a reminder that I'll only live a life as meaningful as yours through hard work and love. Who you were is a big part of who I am. Some people believe they owe nothing to the past, or to the hopes and dreams of their ancestors. Some people, grandma. But I'll never betray us. Happy Birthday, Mozelle.