I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

storytelling for truth lovers

  • two singular American warrior women: one shared destiny

    two singular American warrior women: one shared destiny


    Judge Ketanji Brown Jackson’s parents, Johnny and Ellery Brown, have had a front row seat at their 51 year old daughter’s confirmation proceedings to be appointed the first Black woman to the United States Supreme Court during the Senate Judiciary Committee’s public hearings this week. Their faces remained noncommittal, even stoic, when their daughter’s faith, views on pornography, questions of character were attacked by the Republican Senators in the room.

    The confirmation hearings that began with President Joe Biden’s nomination of Judge Jackson had a zoo-like quality with the zookeeper a/k/a Chairman Dick Durbin doing his best to maintain order – decorum was out the window. Johnny and Ellery Brown had undoubtedly seen worse behavior as natives of Miami growing up in the Jim Crow South but as public school teachers in Washington, D.C. they had also seen the impact of the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s which gave their children more opportunities for success. Judge Jackson was born on September 14, 1970 in Washington, D.C.

    When Judge Jackson was 27 years old in 1997, a woman named Madeleine Albright, who then President Bill Clinton had nominated to become the first female Secretary of State, went through her own Senate confirmation hearings in an atmosphere much less combative than the circus she was forced to endure. Republican Senator Jesse Helms who chaired the Senate Foreign Relations Committee led then United Nations Ambassador Albright through the process that ended in a unanimous Senate vote to confirm. Wow. Those were the days.

    Madeleine Albright was born on May 15, 1937 in Prague, Czechoslovokia (now the Czech Republic). In 1939 the Nazi occupation forced her family to become refugees in England, but they returned home after World War II; only to flee again when the communist coup occurred. Her father Josef Korbel had been a member of the Czechoslovokian diplomatic service and sentenced to death by the communist regime. The second time her family fled Madeleine and her mother Anna took a ship to Ellis Island in November, 1948; Josef joined them later. They eventually settled in Denver, Colorado where Josef accepted a postion at the University of Denver.

    Madeleine Albright’s storied career represents to me the best of America. To be “the first” woman in any field, to be known as a woman who “tells it like it is,” to successfully navigate the political land mines of our nation’s Capitol to serve our country in an ever changing world – these are accomplishments we celebrate; but to achieve as an outsider, a refugee, demands our highest honors including the Presidential Medal of Freedom bestowed by President Barack Obama in 2012.

    Madeleine Albright died yesterday, March 23, 2022 following a long battle with an enemy we all know: cancer.

    The first woman ever called Madam Secretary of State left us as the first Black woman battled for her position on the Supreme Court in a contentious, even embarrassing at times, public hearing while her parents, husband, daughters, brother and others watched. The coincidental timing was remarkable to me.

    Yet I had a spirit of hope for the future when I heard Judge Jackson’s answers to the questions posed yesterday, a glimmer of hope for equality and fairness for my granddaughters. I also felt that same spirit of hope in the legacy Madeleine Albright leaves, her persistence in pursuing freedom for all nations, the world peace she strived for. I salute both of these warrior women during Women’s History Month for their shared destiny, for the heritage we can honor by emulating their courage in our own outrageous acts of everyday rebellions.

    Onward.

  • the battle my grandmother lost

    the battle my grandmother lost


    March is Women’s History Month. I planned to write a new post today to celebrate a universally celebrated woman, but I have two excuses for re-blogging this post from February, 2019: (1) I was glued to the televised Senate confirmation hearings for a Supreme Court nominee by President Biden of a Black woman, Judge Ketanji Brown Jackson, who I sincerely believe will one day be universally celebrated (2) I unabashedly celebrate one of the women who was certainly not well known beyond Grimes and Walker County, Texas but a woman who loved me dearly for as long as she lived.

    my early years in my hometown of rural Richards, Texas

    (circa 1949)

    my dad and me at a family picnic in matching shirts

    made by my grandmother (circa 1951)

    a birthday party dress made by my grandmother (circa 1951)

    my grandmother made this dress and a  picture postcard of me

    for her family Easter card in 1949

    Bless her heart. My grandmother tried and tried to reshape my fashions which upon reflection she probably hoped would reshape my life. One of the most dreaded phrases my mother ever spoke to me – the one that made me cringe-was “Your grandmother is making you a new dress and needs you to walk down to her house to try it on. No arguments, no whining, just go.”

    I absolutely hated to stand on her little stool while she endlessly pinned away to make sure  the pattern she bought from a grand clothing store in the much bigger town of Navasota  fit perfectly on my small body. She pulled, tugged here and there, made me turn around as she measured whatever cloth she had purchased when she bought the pattern. I prayed silently that the aroma I smelled was her pineapple fried pies…the only possible redemption from the hell of being poked and prodded for a new dress I didn’t want to wear.

    My grandmother Betha Day Robinson Morris and I lived within shouting distance of each other in the tiny town (pop. about 500) of Richards until my dad found a new job that took us out of the place I called home when I was 13 years old. Our new home in Brazoria was less than two hours from Richards so we came back every other week for most of my teenage years. Distance did not deter my grandmother from her sewing, however.

    She usually managed to have something for me to try on whenever we visited. I finally surrendered to her passion for sewing because as I grew older I came to understand sewing was an important part of her life, but to this day I dread hearing Pretty say she brought something home for me to try on.

    my grandmother surveys her granddaughters

    before Easter Sunday church services in 1963

    I was 17 years old and wearing a dress my grandmother made for me

    while my younger cousin Melissa modeled her store-bought outfit

    My grandmother continued to sew for me until I was in my twenties. Every Christmas she wrapped a large box in her best wrapping paper and favorite bow saved from the previous Christmas to give to me. I always opened with feigned surprise at the dress she made for me to wear to church and praised her for being able to still find the perfect pattern and material for me even when I wasn’t there to try it on.

    I’ll never forget the last time I opened a gift of clothing she made for me. She had made a pants suit – unbelievable. I could see she was pleased with herself for breaking from the dress tradition she wanted me to wear to making the pants she now understood would forever be my choice of clothes. The year was 1968 – I was 22 years old – my grandmother would have been 55. The pants suit represented a rite of passage for both of us.

    Unfortunately, I never could bring myself to wear the pants suit which was made with a hideous polyester fabric and a horrible bright green and white large zig zag pattern. I couldn’t bring myself to wear it, but I carried it with me around the country wherever I moved for the next 30 years. I would carefully hang it in my closet as a daily reminder of  the love my grandmother gave me for as long as she lived.

    My grandmother Betha was a flawed individual but what I wouldn’t give today to hear my mother say “Sheila Rae, your grandmother is making you a new dress and wants you to try it on. No arguments, no whining, just go.”

    ************

    P.S. When our granddaughter Ella gets new clothes, she can’t wait to try them on! Her mother Pretty Too has a friend Nicole who has a sewing machine and recently taught herself how to sew in a week – my grandmother would have been very impressed with that.

  • leaving moon behind, but you’re still on my mind

    leaving moon behind, but you’re still on my mind


    Well, it’s Old Blue Monday my paternal grandmother Ma began her weekly letters to me while she sat on her little Singer sewing machine stool in front of the large window that gave her a view of her backyard. That phrase was my first thought when I began my walk in the early dawn before the sun rose today. It was old blue Monday, but my walk wasn’t.

    The moon looked almost full like a big circular white cloud against the sky above me when I stopped to watch a lone goose (possibly duck) that had broken ranks with four others to give me a personal “missing man” flyover today. I listened every day on my walks for the sounds of the birds migrating through my neighborhood on their way to wherever they called home. I tried to hear them before they came into view so I would know how many to look for. I guessed the group this morning was small; when the five birds came into sight, they were flying in a triangular formation similar to military aerial special jets like the Blue Angels or Thunderbirds. My goose today left his group, circled back directly over me, and then flew off to rejoin the others. How cool was that?

    I left the moon behind, though, and kept walking as my own jumbled thoughts were keeping pace with my steps: from the war in Ukraine that was always close to the surface, to the Gamecock women’s basketball team on their way to the Sweet 16 in Greensboro Friday, to Rafael Nadal’s loss in the Indian Wells tennis tournament championship yesterday. I also made space in my mind to worry about Pretty who was on a day trip to Georgia in our old Dodge Dakota pickup that would be loaded down when she stopped to deliver her treaures to her antique booths in Little Mountain this afternoon. I could always worry about Pretty and our granddaughters.

    Hm. Macro worry to micro worry. Yep, they call me the worrier for good reason.

    Our driveway was my final hill to climb. Carport Kitty welcomed me home in her usual soft meow. Out of nowhere on the kitchen steps came the memories of a K.T. Oslin song I’ve loved since I first heard her sing it many moons ago.

    You’re still on my mind, still on my mind. I’m still missin’ pieces from this broken heart of mine. Now don’t get me wrong here I don’t do this kind of thing every day. I was just doin’ a little walkin’, doin’ a little talkin’ to myself, and it brought you to my mind again. You’re still on my mind – now I feel like I need to talk to someone from those good ole times.

    All of you are still on my mind today – I’m asking for peace instead of conflict, safety instead of peril, comfort through despair, the power of grace over broken hearts, and the opportunity for every missing person to find the way home.

  • Ukrainian President Zelenskyy to America: I have a dream. I also have a need.

    Ukrainian President Zelenskyy to America: I have a dream. I also have a need.


    In listening to an emotional virtual appeal by Ukraine’s President Zelenskyy to the Congress of the United States this morning, I felt the despair of this leader who had watched his beautiful country together with many numbers of its men, women and children obliterated by an evil neighbor for reasons known only to that neighboring country’s president and his supporters.

    If President Zelenskyy could sing, and I don’t know whether he can, he could have closed with some of the words and music of “I Look to You,” singing along with the American gospel group Selah from their album Hope of the Broken World:

    As I lay me down
    Heaven hear me now

    Winter storms have come
    And darkened my sun
    After all that I’ve been through
    Who on earth can I turn to?

    I look to You, I look to You

    After all my strength is gone
    In You I can be strong I look to You, I look to You
    And when melodies are gone
    In You I hear a song
    I look to You

    I don’t know if I’m gonna make it
    Nothing to do but lift my head

    My levees are broken
    My walls have come crumbling down on me
    The rain is falling, defeat is calling
    I need You to set me free
    Take me far away from the battle
    I need You to shine on me

    The people of Ukraine are looking to us and our Allies around the globe for help to stop not only the physical crumbling walls but also the assault on our vision of freedom and our democratic way of life. Make no mistake, as President Zelenskyy has consistently reminded us, the destruction of Ukraine is but the beginning of a world war against securing the blessings of individual liberty for all people and for their posterity.

    I have a dream, Zelenskyy said to the Congress today, but I also have a need to reclaim the skies over Ukraine, to stop the senseless bombing of my citizens and our homes. He is looking to us.

    Yes. We see you, we hear you, we feel your pain.

    Message to President Biden, Vice President Harris, Secretary Blinken, Congressional members:

    We must help. Do what you think we can do – and then do more.

    Photo by Katie Godowski on Pexels.com

  • Tweety Bird said I Tawt I taw a Puddy Tat…

    Tweety Bird said I Tawt I taw a Puddy Tat…


    Pretty’s cryptic text read thank you for sharing this horror. She was referring to my photo of the victim in the tale, the deceased bright red cardinal lying in state at that very moment on the lid of our city of West Columbia green trash roll cart.

    Carport Kitty – the picture of innocence

    Bully Cat leaving the scene.

    Guilty until proven innocent!

    I caught a glimpse of Bully Cat and a black cat racing past the carport when I opened the kitchen door that afternoon. Not an unusual sight for me since I regularly guarded Carport Kitty’s food bowl from her scavenging enemies or conniving conspiratorial friends. I’ve never figured out which category they belonged to; but I knew BC and company looked bigger, younger, stronger, more well fed while CK remained frail regardless of her food intake.

    When I accidentally discovered the remains of the cardinal in the yard a few minutes later, I thought well what did you expect? This is the cycle of the animal kingdom which you have invited into your family. Sigh. I picked the little fellow up, gently placed him on the lid of the roll cart, took a photo for posterity and sent it to Pretty who was properly horrified. Misery loves company.

    Pretty and I both agreed Carport Kitty couldn’t have been the culprit. Surely she was much too old and slow with her weak back legs to catch anything. Which left us with You Know Who to accuse.

    …and then Tweety Bird said I did, I 100% did taw a puddy tat.

    The End.