Tag: son

A Tribute to My Son

Kay Simpson

All the sonograms showed you were a girl. Sure. Little did they know. Michelle became Michael when you surprised us all. And you refused to be born until Manda could get there, 6 hours from another state… after she got off work.

You walked at 9 months and refused to talk until after you were 2 (and have made up for it since).

You climbed into the stackable dryer when you were 14 months old… to ‘read’ a book.

You showed up at my house one Feb 1 with the clothes on your back with your little sister. And you stayed forever.

You always tried to protect your little sister, even screaming down the middle of the road when she didn’t answer you and you thought she was missing.

You were always a fantastic athlete. It made no difference if it was your first season of soccer, where you got the best defensive player in the league, when every other child in the league was Latino and played from birth. Or baseball, where you had 10 minutes of instruction from Mark before you first played, but the coach said he was glad he’d had one experienced player on the team that really knew how to play. Or football, where there were 3 plays…they all included you having the football. Basketball was ‘get the ball to Michael’. And when it came to cross country, you usually came in first… even in the ‘big’ race. Well, except the time you stopped to help someone that fell, and you came in second. When you took your first riding lesson, you were told there would be 30 minute lessons for a few weeks, until you learned the basics and then they’d go to an hour. Well, that first lesson was an hour. And in just a few weeks, you were even riding bareback. (I miss taking you to the ranch!) No matter what you do, you can do it first, better, most, or sometimes even loudest!

I enjoyed the time you were homeschooled. Especially enjoyed were the times we worked at restaurants and our talking about history got those around us involved.. and you taught them! Where is the little guy that sat in restaurants, discussing Hitler or math, while homeschooling?

You started looking for a job when you were 14. And looked … and looked… And now you have 3…or is it 4?! Congratulations on being persistent!

You ARE just a bit opinionated. Was that sarcasm there? Ya! Sometimes you’re right. Sometimes you think you are. But at least you have an opinion and you care!

You never admit you were wrong…. EVER! But you don’t admit it with a smile. You can be as aggravating as anyone because you’re on your own time instead of on time and for leaving things laying where you’d left them when you’re going right by where they belong.

You stood over me for a month to see if I was still breathing in the middle of the night. Do you know how scary it is to wake to someone leaning over you in the dark? You put off living in your brand new apartment for a whole month so you could run your little brother to a friend’s near school so he wouldn’t miss any more and then went to work and came home to watch over me. And you bought a truck you probably couldn’t afford so you could do that.

You sat down in my bedroom, beside my hospital bed, with a notebook, and said, “Tell me what I have to know to take care of everything if you die.” And we spent the next few hours talking about housing, and bank accounts, and funerals and things no 19 year old should ever have to worry about. And we had tears running down our faces as we talked…and as I do now, remembering. I still have that notebook, in the same spot where you left it. You still will be taking your little brother to finish raising, if I go before he’s grown. (Just, please, make him eat right!)

You take care of everyone… even those that have used you…multiple times! And you have a heart of gold.

I can always count on you to help.

You’ve been through more already than anyone should have to go through in a lifetime. And you give $ even though you don’t have $$ to give.

That first birthday, at your new home with me, was a year no one will forget. I was baking a birthday cake…. Mama’s Mud Cake and the news came on about planes crashing into buildings. So, now, every year on 9/11 I think… This time xx number of years ago, I was baking Michael’s cake.

Now you’re in the Army, and working multiple side ‘hustles’. Yet you’re still caring for everyone else. And you still call your ‘Ma’ and ask questions. Ma, can you send me your green chili enchilada recipe? Ma, how much for .. In this weird year called 2020, we can’t visit and I can’t get your great hugs. But I still know that you’re there for us.

From a little guy with tiny feet to grown up and size 14s. You’ve come a long way! Twenty-four years ago today, I would never had guessed I would be celebrating your birthday as my son. I’m glad I am!

Thank you for all you’ve done! Happy 24th birthday, Michael!

What is White Privilege and what is not? Why do Black Lives Matter?

Kay Simpson

What is white privilege?  Or what is it not?  Why do black lives matter?

I can go anywhere and get into anywhere.  I don’t have to worry about what I say or the way I say it. I don’t have to worry about how I dress. I can do what I want without consequences. I don’t have to worry about being stopped because I’m driving and doing nothing wrong. I don’t have to worry about the police getting called because I look suspicious going for a walk in my neighborhood.  I don’t have to prove to strangers that I can be anywhere.  Here’s some comparisons.

It’s going in places and blending in with a crowd, where no one will even remember you when you go back, but if you need help, one word and they’ll make trip after trip to the dressing rooms with more clothes.  It’s not going out and having everyone stare at you or follow you through the store and then saying I don’t think we have anything that you might want to buy.   

It’s taking your white 3-year-old daughter into the store and being escorted back to the employees restroom.  It’s not shopping at that store, asking to let your 18-month-old, black son to use the restroom and being told we don’t have one.

It’s taking your family in to buy a home and getting the paperwork taken care of in short order.  It’s not taking your 2 black sons in with you to look for a home, being told that the houses are out of our price range and then being helped to buy a more expensive home out in the country.

It’s getting the labor and the zipper done for nothing when it took 90 minutes and labor is $90 an hour, billed at 15 minute intervals.  It’s not being billed for an hour when the work took 10 minutes.


It’s going to the movie where it’s really cold and you ask if they will turn the a/c warmer and they change the temp in all of the theater rooms. It’s not taking your adult, black son to a movie in Georgia and have the people behind you keep saying things like races shouldn’t mix.  Why are you with that ‘n’?

It’s getting a free dessert or getting your tab picked up without asking because your water wasn’t filled up quickly enough. It’s not going to Denny’s in Georgia after taking your son to that movie and leaving because, though you were there first, and the black family next, and the white family that came in last get waited on before the black family and you aren’t waited on at all.   It’s reporting to corporate and a manager being fired because they hear your white voice.

It’s having a beautiful landscaped yard that no one bothers. It’s not waking up to the remains of a burned cross in your yard.


It’s going out to your car after a banquet, getting in, and having a peaceful ride home.  It’s not getting in, driving off, having two tires blow and you barely keep the car under control to keep from landing in a dark, deserted river bottom at 2 in the morning. 

It’s being able to stand up to a police officer and tell them that they are wrong and not worry about retribution. 

Those are my experiences as a white woman.  All of them.  There is only one difference in the way I was treated.  And that was because I had my black family with me.  I was the same person. It was nothing that I did.  I’m a person of color.  It just so happens that my color is a lot paler than others.

Everything that I do is a white privilege.  And here is the thing.  We’re all the same people.  We’re just dressed in different skins.  

Why do black lives matter?  You shouldn’t even have to ask.  I cry because you do. Black lives matter for the same reason that my life matters. It’s the same for anyone.  We’re all part of the human race. We just come in different colors.

*for ‘Mack’