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I wrote this article on the occasion of my grandmother's 100th birthday, back in September 1994.  The article appeared later that fall in the Flint Journal.  In the picture (taken around 1972), my mother Louise Tarver is on the left, and Mimama is on the right.  The cool guy in the middle is yours truly.

Happy Birthday Mimama!

My grandmother, Elizabeth Bernice Hayden, turns 100 years old this week. We call her Mimama. Family members are coming from all over the country to commemorate Mimama’s birthday. Her brothers, sons and daughters, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, great-great grandchildren, nieces and nephews, cousins, friends -- we are all getting together to honor her. Not just because she is 100 years old, but because she has given us all so much. Everyone at the celebration this weekend can probably tell you how special Mimama is to them, what she has done for them, how she has inspired them. I want to give just a small sample of these tributes by reflecting on what Mimama means to me.

Mimama came to live with us when I was born, back in 1953. Her husband, Bill Hayden, had died in 1950, and my parents offered that if Mimama would take care of me and my brother and sister, she could stay with us. Mimama was there when I arrived home from Hurley Hospital, and she was there when I left to attend college eighteen years later.

My earliest recollections of Mimama are of those times when I would sit on her knee, and she would sing songs. It seemed that we would spend most of the day just sitting there, rocking, singing. There was such a feeling of security there -- a feeling that nothing and no one in the world could harm me. Much of my own self-esteem was derived from those times on Mimama’s lap -- times when she would remind me that I was so special, that I was destined to do great things, that she was praying for me every day. Those messages were burned into my subconscious at an early age, and are still with me today. They were such an important part of my development as a person. Even now, as a parent, I try to make sure that my kids hear those same messages every day.

Mimama lived for Quinn Chapel A.M.E. Church. If she missed a church service, you just knew that she was seriously ill or out of town. She was so devoted to the church that we hardly ever got to sit with her during services. She was always sitting in the front row with the other members of the missionary society, helping to conduct the services. Mimama guided and encouraged my participation in the church. When I would serve as an altar boy or choir member, I would always look for her face to see how I was doing. She never failed to let me know.

Mimama was and is a proud lady. In the late 50s and early 60s, she would take me with her on the train to Georgia to see our relatives there. I remember more than once when she saw a WHITE sign on a bathroom or drinking fountain and defiantly ignored it. Later, during the heat of the civil rights movement, she would constantly remind me that I was a first and foremost a human being. She would sometimes get angry to the point of tears when we young folks would gleefully dance around the house singing "Say it loud -- I’m BLACK and I’m proud!" -- not because she wasn’t proud, but because she refused to be categorized, and didn’t want us to be either.

Mimama’s politics helped shape my politics. She loved Kennedy and loathed Nixon. She was inspired by Martin Luther King, but was wary of Malcolm X. She didn’t care for Gerald Ford, but she liked Jimmy Carter. She saw so many presidents and national figures come and go during her time that you couldn’t help but respect her judgement and her wisdom. If there was a theme to her politics, it was that she favored those who espoused unity, mutual respect, and love, and shunned those, right or left, who preached division, hatred, and violence. Not a bad philosophy.

Now don’t get me wrong -- Mimama was no doormat. She could handle a switch as well as anyone, and often did so with alacrity. Once when my brother got out of line, she simply grabbed his head and pushed it into the wall. Most of the time, though, there was plenty of warning that punishment was imminent, and we could usually outrun Mimama. No, the harshest punishment from Mimama wasn’t physical in nature -- it was simply seeing her look hurt or disappointed, or worst of all, seeing her cry.

Listening to all of this, you might think that Mimama alone raised me. Where were my parents and my siblings? Well, let me tell you, they were all there. My mother taught me finesse and confidence -- she showed me by example that a person can be articulate yet attentive, smart yet sensitive. My father put me on the road to my career in electronics and engineering while I was still in elementary school. My sister and my brother were great role models, because they showed me how to go out into a world that still had many barriers to black success, and to succeed anyway. I love my family, and I could write a book about each of them, but my relationship with Mimama is special precisely because it complements all the others. Mimama never tried to replace anyone else in the family -- her role was to provide spiritual guidance, wisdom, and love. I know that sounds like the job description for an angel, but it fits.

So here we are honoring Mimama. A lady who was born before the radio, the airplane, the computer, the television, the space shuttle. A lady who has lived through both world wars, the depression, the women’s suffrage movement, the union movement, and the civil rights movement. Even so, Mimama has never seemed to be behind the times. She has always been "with it" in her own special way -- in fact you could say that she is ahead of the times, because her kind of love is needed just as much today as it was 100 years ago. In fact, it is her kind of love that can save this world.

W. David Tarver
Little Silver, NJ

September 27, 1994