It’s always Black History Month in my house.
I used to keep a photograph of an old North Carolina slave woman in my study.
Some people paste pictures of themselves on their refrigerator doors as a reminder not to overeat, I once wrote, but I kept a picture of Sarah Gudger to remind me to get to work early, to feed my kids and take the cat to the vet, to stop complaining about how hard it all is.
I now have a photo of Rosa Parks hanging in my living room. It’s a twofer: It was taken by Washington Post photographer Michel du Cille, a three-time Pulitzer Prize winner who died two months ago while on assignment in Liberia. Just seeing his print every day reminds me of his artistry, of his respect for people and their stories, reminds me that we all need to be about the work we were called to do.
Seeing Parks staring out — unsmiling, in spectacles and hat, hands neatly folded in her lap — shows me true north as I lay a course for my day. She fixes me with her best I’m-not-going-to-the-back-of-the-bus look, and when I’m feeling overwhelmed by the demands of career and kids, she gives me strength to pull it together.
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But lately something else has been happening as well.
A few weeks ago, I broke a light bulb under her picture and when I looked up, it seemed she was chiding me: Now you know if you'd've twisted that from the base, you wouldn't have broken it. Light bulbs cost good money, Parks scolded.
It didn't stop there. If I haven't cleaned up, she asks: Are you just going to leave the house like this? If I'm wearing jeans to a lunch date because I didn't make it to the cleaners, Parks wonders why I've decided to just let myself go.
As near as I can tell, my living-room Rosa Parks is turning into a meme in my head. When I think about it, it’s not all that surprising. We’re all looking for inspiration. And rules that feel like truth.
Share this articleShareParks stands in for Aunt Hattie, or Miss Inez, or Aunt Mozelle. She is like the Dowager Countess, the Maggie Smith character on “Downton Abbey.” She represents a voice we used to hear in our families, and we don’t anymore, even though we still need her. So we create a way for her to be portable, to fit into the new and sometimes scary quasi-spaces of our lives.
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I ran this theory by friends who’ve seen the photograph, and they instantly got it:
Sit at the table, girl, and speak up, Parks whispers in Krissah's ear during a meeting.
Was that the Lord's name you just took in vain? Parks says to Robin.
The voice is not harsh, or unkind, mostly just judgmental, undergirded by a faith that you know better, we all know better, which is the only reason you are even hearing Rosa Parks’s voice in your head in the first place.
I asked my 16-year-old what lesson she takes from our living room photo and she says: “Whenever you’re tired, you look at her picture and you think about how tired she was, and that helps you get done whatever you need to get done.”
It is a perfect living Black History Month message to instill. That, and don’t forget to put on pantyhose if you’re leaving the house.
For more by O'Neal, visit wapo.st/lonnae.
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