In the vast, distant past, long before I took my first breath, an unfortunate event took place in my family. My grandfather abandoned my grandmother, leaving her to care for their six children alone in the picturesque blue hills of Jamestown, located in southern Kentucky. In desperate need of support, my grandmother made the bold decision to move her family to the bustling city of Louisville, where her brothers, my great-uncles Marion, Claude, James, John Henry, Orville, Orison, Bab, and Silas resided. Among these uncles, I had the pleasure of knowing Claude and James the best. They were extraordinary figures in my eyes, towering over me as a young 5-year-old, emanating a sense of ancient wisdom. I was aware that they had fought in wars and possessed a fondness for brown liquor. Uncle Claude was a strikingly handsome man with a rich, deep complexion, a robust belly, and delicate, wiry legs. His voice boomed like a sonic explosion, and he always carried a tiny bottle of Maker’s Mark in his shirt pocket. His pristine, white K-Swiss shoes never failed to catch my attention. Every time I encountered Uncle Claude, we engaged in the same scripted dialogue, word for word:
“Did you go to school today?” he would inquire.
“Did you learn anything?” he would probe further.
“Well, why did you go then?” he would teasingly question.
“Because my mama made me,” I would respond, and the two of us would burst into laughter, as if he wasn’t fully aware of my answer. My mother adores this tale and joins in with her own laughter every time she hears it.
Uncle James was the uncle who consistently kept a cluster of bananas atop the refrigerator and never missed an opportunity to offer me one whenever my mother and I paid him a visit. He exuded a calm and composed demeanor, his voice low and gentle, with a hint of raspiness, reminiscent of a wilting rose petal. Though mild-mannered, he possessed a sharp wit and sense of humor. I distinctly recall sitting at my grandmother’s dining room table at the tender age of 4 or 5, savoring delectable slices of her renowned caramel cake while sitting beside Uncle James. With a mouthful of cake, he would compliment my grandmother’s baking skills. However, when she left the room, he would lean in close to me and whisper, “Tastes like cornbread.” We would share a private, mischievous chuckle, and he would caution me not to disclose his secret comment to my grandmother. I, of course, never uttered a word. Claude and James were responsible for raising my uncles Earnest, Gilbert, and Ronald. Unfortunately, both Earnest and Ronald have since passed away, leaving a palpable void during our family gatherings, as they were always the highlight of these occasions.
Earnest, with his warm, humorous personality, was renowned for his succulent ribs and flavorful collard greens. However, his incessant singing of Mystikal’s “Shake it Fast” during one Thanksgiving event left a bitter taste in everyone’s mouth. We affectionately referred to him as Uncle Professorlips, as he fancied himself a brilliant philosopher whenever he indulged in a few drinks. He would launch into passionate speeches, punctuated with incoherent words, akin to Damon Wayans’ Oswald Bates character from “In Living Color.” My mother often reminisces about how, when I was just a few months old, Uncle Earnest would arrive at our house, scoop me up, and take me on a drive around the city. “A 2-year-old sitting on the front seat with no seatbelt! What was I thinking?” she laments with a smile. Although undoubtedly a perilous situation, it speaks volumes about the love and trust she had for her brothers. And I always made it back home safe and sound.
Speaking of safety, my bond with Uncle Ronald only revealed its true significance and influence to me when I found myself at Green’s Chapel Cemetery in Jamestown this past May, bidding him a final farewell. Reluctant to leave him alone, I decided to pluck one last yellow rose from atop his casket. It was then that I truly grasped the profound impact he had on my life. My uncles were a constant source of joy, protection, love, and support. Yet, it was Uncle Ronald with whom I felt the deepest connection, as he lived with us in the house where I spent my formative years. Just as his uncles had stepped in when his own father was absent, Uncle Ronald became a pillar of strength during the times when my relationship with my father was strained. In the absence of my father, I needed to witness Black men caring for their families, providing protection, and showing up, even if it was just to dance with their grandchildren at family reunions. I needed to know that I was deserving of love and protection from male figures, just like my father, who failed to convey that crucial message to me. This is why my uncles continually stepped in, time and time again.
The profound influence and significance of my bond with Uncle Ronald became strikingly evident to me on a gloomy day in May as I stood at Green’s Chapel Cemetery, reluctant to leave him behind with only memories to keep him company. Alongside my family, I bid my final farewell and plucked one more yellow rose from the floral arrangement adorning his casket. From that moment, I truly comprehended the powerful connection I had shared with Uncle Ronald.
According to my mother, the first time Uncle Ronald held me in his arms after my birth, he smiled and declared, “This will be my baby.” To my dismay, I quickly vomited all over him, triggering laughter between us. It was at that moment that our bond was sealed. Uncle Ronald was the funniest and coolest man I had ever known, possessing a slender frame and a vibrant sense of style. He always sported a black leather jacket, drove a new Cadillac, and emitted a captivating aroma of Joop, tobacco, and marijuana. His customary greeting to friends consisted of a boisterous “What’s up, doc?” accompanied by an exuberant, clapping handshake. Following our Christmas feast, he would announce his intention to go “round the corner,” disappearing from the house for about ten minutes, only to return with a grin plastered on his face, ready to dig into another plate of food. The only times I witnessed a “smile-less” Uncle Ronald were during living room funerals, where he paced back and forth, shaking his head while watching the Louisville Cardinals men’s basketball team lose. It was only after his passing this year that I discovered his friends affectionately referred to him as “Smiley” due to his infectious and unforgettable smile. When he smiled, his entire face would transform, his eyes vanishing as his teeth dominated the scene, while his mouth appeared to dangle from his ears. Always on the cusp of laughter, Uncle Ronald possessed a contagious joy that would cause him to momentarily lose his breath in fits of mirth. As he regained his composure, he would exhale deeply, the laughter often resurfacing soon after.
I was fortunate to have an extraordinary array of uncles in my life, each contributing their own unique qualities. However, the distinctive aspect of my relationship with Uncle Ronald was the laughter. During his time living with my mother, brother, grandmother, and me, we spent countless hours together, lounging on the couch, watching television, or swinging on the porch beneath the shade of the maple tree my mother had planted. Laughter permeated our interactions. We had inside jokes and nicknames for one another that never waned.
Throughout my childhood, my father’s presence was inconsistent, a constant ebb and flow in my life. When I turned 18 and embarked on my journey as a college freshman, I made the firm decision to sever all ties with him after he neglected to pick me up from campus one weekend. Consumed by sadness, I poured out my heart to my mother on the phone. In response, Uncle Ronald arrived promptly, whisking me away to his abode in Nicholasville, a mere 25-minute drive from Lexington, where I attended school. As I vented my frustrations, he grilled steaks and prepared a hearty meal while I tended to my laundry. That evening, tears silently streamed down my face as I sat on his couch. But come morning, he prepared a delightful breakfast, and together we found solace in laughter, amused by the simplicity of our conversation. On my way back to campus, we continued to share laughs, weaving in and out of topics that held no significance beyond the sheer joy of being in each other’s company.
In essence, my uncles became the male figures I desperately needed during moments of paternal absence. They demonstrated the importance of love, care, and protection within the framework of a family. Uncle Ronald was the embodiment of strength and support, someone who never hesitated to step in when I needed him most. His presence allowed me to witness firsthand the unwavering commitment of Black men to their loved ones, reinforcing my belief in my own worthiness of such devotion. Uncle Ronald’s passing strengthened my realization of the profound and lasting impact he had on my life, leaving me standing amidst the sprawling landscape of Green’s Chapel Cemetery, clutching a solitary yellow rose, reluctant to leave him behind in solitude.
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