A Personal Essay by Founder of Modern Mae, Lacey Cherice

Eight miles from town down a two-lane road was where I experienced my big Black family- a clothesline in the backyard, Grandma Doris’ folks stopping by to fix a plate, a BBQ pit in the side yard, green pastures with cows, a dirt road, and bare feet.

And I had the joy of going to Grandma Marguerite’s house in town, where solitude reigned with homemade popsicles, big pecan trees in the front yard for easy pickin’, the occasional friend stopping by unannounced, walks to the park and down Main Street, morning chicken feeds in the backyard, and the smell of Pink Lotion, Pine-Sol, and collard greens.

These memories hold me closer than I hold them on most days.

My wife and I recently watched “High on the Hog: How African-American Cuisine Transformed America” on Netflix. I won’t give too much away for those who haven’t watched the show, and you need to watch it. Period. During episode 5, fittingly titled “Freedom”, host Stephen Satterfield journeys to Texas to talk Juneteenth, Black cowboys, and, of course, BBQ. I was sweetly transported back to my hometown, and it was exactly what I needed. I moved to California in 2015 and currently work in the tech industry. I guess you could say I made room for one more Californian to move to Texas (lightweight sorry, y’all). Even with making regular visits home, it takes conscious effort to stay connected to my roots. It is something I feel strongly about, especially right now as we share more stories and experiences of underrepresented communities in America, particularly. For me, that means stories of my big Black, lesbian experience. In my small town, we showed up on Juneteenth. If fact, one year my mama decided she would live on the edge and kinda sorta stop at stop signs through town, confident that because it was Juneteenth, she would get out of a ticket if she did get pulled over. I believe what she said to us in the back seat was, “It’s Juneteenth. I wish they would try me today. Roll and go all day. Roll and go!” Hilarious.

There is so much to digest when we think about connecting to the essential people who contribute to who we are, but what grounds me quicker than anything are the people who were the undertones of my childhood. Many moments stand out with our closest kinfolk. But what about the people who maybe stopped by and occasionally shined their light in our worlds?

What about the background players? You know, Pooky, Doolem, and Bussey?

To many of you, those names mean nothing. To me, Pooky, Doolem, and Bussey were the bass notes in my story. I did have to call my mama and double check the spelling of their names while writing this piece, but that’s beside the point. These three wise Black men provided tangible evidence of what it means for a village to raise you. Their contribution to how I understand Black family, community, and culture is something I hold just as close to me as I do my memories with my grandmas.

Pooky, born Leon Webster Martin, would stop by my grandma’s house and park his big Dodge truck with the front cattle guard in the yard. He wore old blue jeans, a button down pearl snap shirt, and a cowboy hat. He’d roll up, step out with his melanated, burly demeanor, throw up his hand and say, “How y’all doin?” to whomever was sittin on the front porch. My sister and I would be so excited when Pooky stopped by because we got to go with him to let the cows back into the pasture. We’d pile up in his truck, drive down the paved country road to his ranch gate, and use all of our little kid energy to open it and call the cows home.

Doolem, born Arthur Waites, too, had a pick-up truck. It was brown with a thin faded orange stripe all the way around. I believe it was a Ford. His smaller framed, light skin, and soft voice were easy to love. Doolem would kinda sorta park in the yard. The back of his truck never seemed to quite make it into the yard, at least that’s how I remember it. He’d walk up the front steps and before making it to the screen door, he’d yell, “Ayy Doris!” in the sweetest voice. One of us would open the door, and Doolem would make his way to the kitchen table to talk with granny for hours. He also knew grandma Marguerite, so when we visited her, he’d roll up, park, and they’d gather on the front porch, talking ol’ folks stuff for a while. We knew Doolem in two places, and as a kid that was fun. His presence was a bridge that connected us to both sides of the family.

Bussey, born Louis Haywood, was my brother’s (Sedric) favorite, and Sedric was favorite. At one point, my sister Crystal and I thought grandma Doris and Bussey were dating because he lived with us for a while, but our family says no. We’ll never know. Bussey was the king of $1 bills, plain Lay’s potato chips, and RC (if you don’t know RC, we can connect later). After spending all day in town hanging out with the fellas either at the convenient store or the domino shack, Bussey would show up just before dark, treats in hand. Most of the time they were for Sedric. He seriously was the favorite. If nobody else had money in the house, Sedric had money, at 3, 4, 5 years old because Bussey would sneak him $1 or $5 bills all the time, sometimes a $20. Bussey knew grandma Marguerite, too. He played dominoes with my grandpa Sidro at the domino shack, which was diagonal from grandma Martin’s house in town, the recreational softball field between the two. You see, Bussey was a grandpa to us whether he knew it or not. If he wasn’t home by dark, we’d ask my grandma, “Is Bussey coming home?”. When Bussey came home, the night was done.

Pooky, Doolem, and Bussey, did not help me with homework, clothe me, do my hair, or feed me daily. They were connectors to the deeper story of my existence, frame of reference, and joy. They are present when all I want is a brisket plate from Billy’s BBQ or when I taught my wife to play spades during quarantine last year. Their bass notes keep me steady as I educate colleagues on why “I don’t see color” is more divisive than they think while protecting my own peace of mind in the process. When I drive through California farmland or gather with friends to shoot the shit, I remember the ease in creating community, that we take care of each other.

Who are your background players? Your bass notes? How do they connect you to the deeper story of your lived experience?

Embrace the nuances of who you are. Every bit of what you live through informs who you are. I hope you take time to dig a little deeper and connect to yourself Pooky, Doolem, and Bussey. Ancestral wisdom is free.

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