Originally written in 2013 | Updated for Memoirs of a Black Girl, 2025
Yesterday was October 11. A date that might pass quietly for many — but thanks to a scroll through my social media feed, I was reminded of its greater significance. It was International Day of the Girl Child — a global call by the United Nations to empower girls, protect their rights, and remind the world that investing in girls isn’t just the right thing to do — it’s the most impactful.
As I reflected on that, I found myself thinking of you, my nieces. Young women now — bold, brilliant, blossoming. Many of you, I didn’t get the chance to grow up alongside. Life had its way of pulling us in different directions. And in some seasons, I pulled away, grieving silently, navigating emotional, spiritual, and financial valleys that followed the loss of both my parents. It was during those years that some of you were still little girls yourselves.
Now, as you stand at the intersection of womanhood and legacy, I feel led to give you this: a love letter, a history lesson, and a powerful reminder of the woman you came from. This is my offering to you — a story about your grandmother, my mother. My Mama.
She Wasn’t Famous, But She Was Phenomenal
My mama, Thelma B. Jones, wasn’t famous by society’s standards. She didn’t win awards or walk red carpets. But she was a woman of fierce love, unwavering faith, and quiet strength. She loved her family with her whole being and served God with a heart wide open.
Born in the summer of 1936 to a Barbadian immigrant mother and a Virginia-born father — a man said to be part Native, with rich skin and long braids he wore even in uniform — Mama’s life began in a swirl of beauty and hardship. Her mother, once part of a well-off family in Barbados, had been disowned for marrying my grandfather. She died in poverty when Mama was just seven.
From that point, life for Mama and her siblings was anything but easy. They became wards of the state of New York, separated from one another, placed in foster homes. My grandfather, broken and battling addiction, couldn’t care for them. Mama carried those wounds with grace — surviving abuse, shame, and abandonment. She told me once about being forced to use newspapers during her menstrual cycle because her foster mother refused to buy her feminine hygiene products. She went to school in ill-fitting hand-me-downs and endured unspeakable trauma, including molestation.
And still — she rose.
Love, Loss, and Legacy
Mama became a mother in her teens—twice. The state wouldn’t allow her to raise her children because she was still a child herself, but she never stopped showing up. Her eldest children, Nina and your Uncle Jimmy, were raised in other homes, but they always knew their mother loved them.
She grew into a stunning woman — raven hair, radiant skin, cheekbones kissed by moles like constellations. She caught many eyes, but it was your grandfather (or great-grandfather), James, whom she chose to marry. And in true Mama fashion, she did the proposing — locking him in a bathroom until he said yes (that’s real love Brooklyn-style).
They had three children together: Thelma, Andrea, and Scotty. Little Scotty passed away from leukemia at just five years old. That loss carved a permanent scar in my mother’s heart. My Godfather James, a proud man who provided a 13-room home and ran his own barbershop, struggled under the weight of grief and addiction — but he never abandoned his family. He was also the man who paid for Mama’s and my hospital bills when I was born, even though I wasn’t his child. To this day, he still calls me his baby girl.
Finding Her Way, Again and Again
Mama’s second great love was my father. They met in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous — not as two people battling addiction, but as two souls searching for healing. She was trying to find help for her then-husband, and she found a future instead. My parents were friends before they were lovers, and though their marriage didn’t last romantically, they remained tied in spirit until my father’s death in 2001.
Mama was a counselor, a caretaker, a prayer warrior. Even as her eyesight failed and she was declared legally blind, she pushed forward. She earned her GED, studied business, and eventually transformed our apartment into a daycare so she could provide for us. That’s who she was — relentless in the face of adversity, resourceful beyond measure.
She walked with dignity, even when the world handed her brokenness.
The Woman You Came From
To my nieces — and even to your daughters one day — I want you to know this: You come from good stock. From a woman who fought back when life knocked her down. From a woman who believed in God but also in grit. From a woman who made sure her children had food, faith, and a safe place to call home.
She was imperfect. But to me, she was perfectly ours.
I often think about how much she would have adored each of you. She would have spoken life into you, covered you in prayer, and told stories that made you laugh and cry. She would’ve taught you how to fry chicken just right and why you should never forget who you are or where you come from.
She would’ve reminded you that your voice matters, that your dreams matter, that you matter.
You Are Her Legacy
Twelve years ago, I wrote this letter in grief. Today, I share it in gratitude.
I miss Mama every day. And yet, I know she’s with me — in the way I mother, the way I write, the way I love. I’ve traveled further than she ever did. She never learned to drive, and yet she put so many on the road to purpose.
You are her seed. You carry her resilience, her spirit, and her strength. You have a responsibility not to let your potential die with you. You were born to bloom — not break. Born to be the change.
May this letter remind you that you stand on the shoulders of a quiet giant. An unsung hero. My Mama. Your legacy.With all my love,
Auntie Lela
© 2025, Lela Fagan. All rights reserved.
