Mattie Rufus Wright, 1922-2007

Grandma died this morning. I had written a letter to her earlier this year, a letter I had been meaning to write for a long time. I'm glad that I got around to doing it. That letter is below.

Dear Grandma—

You’ve been on my mind. I’ve been thinking about the gift of your presence in my life. So much is said these days about the struggles of women who juggle the roles of worker, mother, wife, daughter, friend….I don’t have to look very far to be strengthened and encouraged as I go through these same struggles. You are right there. Your life is an example to me, in the truest and best sense of the word. You are the root of a tree that has born the sweetest fruit imaginable.

Looking back on those days when I was putting myself through school by cleaning toilets and washing towels at the recreation center…at those cold Michigan winters when I barely had enough money to catch the bus to my classes, I see things clearly. It was YOUR spirit that kept me going, kept me striving even when I didn’t get into grad school the first time around. It was the spirit you passed on to your daughter G. that gave me a family and a place to live while I worked my way through graduate school. There were so many times when I thought I wouldn’t be able to make it—that I wasn’t strong enough, or smart enough. In those darkest moments, God has been there, and so have you. I am because you are--because of the spirit that you possess, a spirit that you gave to each of your children—and all of them are an inspiration to me. Even though life has not been a “crystal stair” for any of us, we are who we are because of you.

As a child, I remember your son's sketch books and fashion designs, L.'s fancy clothes and shoes, G.’s wonderful desserts, J.’s scripts and my mother’s medical books and dictionaries…

As a woman with a daughter of my own, my heart seems to overflow when I think of the fact that J. pursued his dreams in New York, that L.—with only an associate’s degree—has become the first African American general manager of a department store, that G.—after retiring from her state job after 20 years—has become a pastry chef and traveled the world, that J. has financed her own movies and entered them in film festivals, even while working full time as a special education teacher.

And I think about my mom. I think about how she had me when she was nineteen. I think about how she raised me and my brothers and sister and then went back to school to pursue her own dream. I think of how proud I am to say that age 50, my mother became a doctor.

And then, my thoughts turn back to you, when I lay awake at night and my heart literally aches with the desire to be a writer. I believe that is why I have chosen to help African American girls and boys express themselves through stories. As I try to nurture their creative spirits, I wonder if I am doing enough to keep my own dream alive.

Langston Hughes once asked “what happens to a dream deferred?” Like your own dreams, each of your children’s dreams have been deferred. But we have held on to them, nurtured them and kept the fire going when those dreams were just coals among ashes. I imagine that this is what you did, when you wrote bits of poems on church programs. When you wrote the beginnings of stories late at night after your children were asleep, as you hemmed pants and sewed curtains for your customers.

I am so incredibly proud that at the age of 84, you've taken creative writing classes, written children's stories...and you have published your own book of poetry. Through it all—through working, through raising your children, through caring for Granddad as he struggled with Alzheimer’s, you kept your dream alive.

I want you to know that I believe that I can be a writer, and it is because of you. You are my inspiration and my muse. Your spirit lives on in my mother, and it lives on in my heart and my soul.

I love you so very much, and I just wanted you to know that God has blessed me beyond belief by making you a part of my life.

Your Granddaughter,

f.e.wright