A Grand "Ma": A Journey to Motherhood and Back Again

By Carol Morris

Born in Senatobia, Mississippi, and raised between her birth town; Memphis, Tennessee (her hometown); and Chicago, Illinois (where she and her family would permanently reside), Carol Morris began thinking from a young age about the mother she would be. Seeing the mothers around her– having children while being children, continuing to do so until they were having babies next to their babies, scarred by the lack of respect it really seemed most men had for their bodies– motherhood seemed almost like a certain doom. Everyone around her had essentially the same advice; it's coming, so get ready.
As a mother of 3 before 25, she was determined to shield her children from the nightmares of her childhood, and show them the nurturing and safe home that she had yearned for. It was far from easy, but she intended to do her best, regardless. So she pressed on, relocating or rearranging as necessary to accommodate the three little people who were her greatest responsibility.
Pain, grief and loss came like grenades, one after the other with no warning. Motherhood is a test of everything, but for her, those little faces made all the struggles worth it. So she pushed. All three of her children became high school graduates, and at least launched into the workforce. Over 30 years into motherhood, Carol and her husband finally feel like they are able to plan for when their nest has been cleared when another bomb hits the family.
Mornica, her oldest daughter, died in a tragic and brutal course of actions by her husband, who also ended his own life. After losing her eldest child, as a grandmother nearing her 50s, Carol was thrust into motherhood once again, to raise the little girl her daughter left behind. This little girl and her first cousin– a little boy born to Carol's second child in December of 1999, Carol's oldest grandchild– graduated high school about 15 years later. And of course, it was in the cards that she began the cycle again with 3 of her granddaughters shortly after.
With the nest overcrowded, the little people began to look around to all the faces framed on the walls and ask questions. The bigger ones begin to look back and gain perspective with momentum. It dawns on Carol that this journey of hers is remarkable. And she's decided to tell it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9798886277395

Carol Morris

Carol Morris is the owner of a mini call center, a customer service representative, and now first-time author from Memphis, Tennessee. She is a devoted mother-of-three, wife, grandmother, aunt, cousin, sister and friend who has been a part of the "village" that raised many children who are now adults living their own lives. She currently lives in Richton Park, Illinois, and, with her husband, is raising three of her granddaughters. Now, she is stepping out to tell the story of how she came to be a part of those villages, detailing the life she has lived and what makes her, like many women in this world, "A Grand "Ma"".

Book preview

Foreword

Any time my mom talks about this book, one of the first things she mentions is that it was decades in the making, saved on now-locked hard drives, and most of it didn’t make it into the copy you’ll read. This is all true. She’s been writing this thing for years and she gives me so much credit, that I have now had to accept. So here I am, writing a foreword, because I just can’t keep hearing her say "well, I keep telling you your name or logo or something should be on there, Dejah…" without doing this.

She tells the story of her epiphany, her moment when it’s like okay, I’m writing this book now. That moment was three years ago. Spring 2021. The pandemic felt like the world was ending– or warping or something– and we look back and it was, and it did. But for our family it was strange, though I’m sure not uncommon globally in quarantine zones– we started to get curious about our home and our connections, as a way not to get bored. So I’m going into a class to learn how to write my own story, on a break from pursuing a bachelors in Creative Writing and English online (still on hold, but that’s something I’ll wait until my own book to discuss), and seeing me take that leap and distill my thoughts into print galvanized my mom in a way that inspired me.

This story meant so much to me, and the fact that it was my mom’s first book and a story that is older than I am made it such an honor to learn about her and the rest of my family, including my biological parents, who I yearn for connection to, even at (almost) 24 years old. Helping my mom tell her daughters story, and having my grandmother be able to help build my mother and father into fuller human beings in my consciousness will always be priceless to me. But I have to tell you all the reasons I decided to take on this project.

I was my mom’s copy editor, proofreader, line editor, developmental editor, coauthor, whatever she needed at that moment because I wanted her story to be told exactly as she wanted it. I understood her style, and I knew the specific transpositions she tended to make due to her dyslexia. And most importantly, I know my mom’s a perfectionist who will not rest until it’s done.

And, yall, she didn’t.

She wrote in her sleep, on wayward napkins like August Wilson, all told this book would have had 1,000 pages if she had her way, and I couldn’t have that.

My thing was, yes, but they have to want to read it.

This book is from the deepest parts of our hearts. It’s her story– part of our story– told to the best of our ability. That was my ultimate goal with A Grand Ma. Tell her story.

Bringing this book to life was at times a bit daunting but so much fun and one of the most educational and cherished experiences of my life. I love and admire this woman so deeply. I call her Hercules, and I mean it.

Dejah Winfrey Morris

Preface

I cannot express enough how overjoyed I am to be able to finally write this book. I came from a place that made it very difficult for me to thrive as a child. I lacked support. I was not protected. The more I tried to talk things out with people, I realized that no one was listening. So, I held many of my thoughts in. After my daughter Mornica’s death in December of 2002, I began to realize that I needed to keep a journal. At night when the grandchildren were all tucked in, I would take my me time. I would prepare myself a hot bath. Once done, I would prop my pillows up nicely on my bed; put a glass of pinot noir on the bedside table, then pull out my ruby red journal. I would write about all the disgusting things that I had experienced. It was difficult then to write, but I had to find some way to get it all out. Writing down my thoughts often brought me to sadness. It was hard to think about the abuse and sexual assault I had experienced, and the death of my loved ones. Everything about Mornica’s death brought forth things that were buried in my subconscious mind. I would get so frustrated to the point that the stress caused me body aches and pain. I stopped writing.

In 2020, when the COVID-19 pandemic hit, I decided to finally get this story written out. With the world seemingly holding its breath, I was given the opportunity to take a pause and think about what impact the turbulence of life has had on the entire world – not just me. I have been able to share many of my experiences with those of my children and grandchildren that live with me.

I am always intrigued by their lines of questions. It was during our lunch hour of remote learning one day that it was brought to my attention that they had paid attention to all the photos on the walls, mantle, and in my photo albums. They wanted the background of each picture -- even their own. Specifically, they were interested to know about the one with me and then three-year-old Mornica. They would ask,

Grandma, who are these people?

That’s me when I was… oh… about twenty-one- maybe twenty-two.

Who is the little girl?

That is my first-born child.

What? You mean Sequoia, my mom, is not your first child?

No, sweetie she is not. The little girl in that picture is Dejah’s mother, she is deceased.

Huh?

Yes. I began to choke up and stumble over my words a bit but explained,

I am Dejah’s grandmother, but I had to become her mother after Mornica, her mother, and Charles, her father, died. Mornica, Sequoia’s fourth child, you are her namesake.

Huh?

Our lunchtime is over; I will tell you all more about Dejah’s mom later.

We did not have as much quality time pre-pandemic. So, you might say that it could not have come at a better time-- at least for me. My grandchildren have been asking so many questions about my childhood. I have shared with them my turbulent times, my starts and my stops, my successes, and my failures. I could see myself in them at their age. I could see their innocence. I decided to do everything in my power not to allow anyone to take that away.

Over the past 19 years, it has been difficult for me to answer and explain the details of my pain and losses without becoming overwhelmingly emotional. Still, I knew that I would have to answer more questions and relive my past eventually. After all, this was their family we were talking about, too. So, for the first six months of the pandemic, I was telling my story anyway, just not writing it. In fact, Gia, Sequoia’s eldest daughter, had approached me one day after school.

Grandma, I need to write a paper about my favorite grandparent. But I don’t want to write about you.

I gave a surprised look, and then she went on to explain why.

Grandma, you are the best, but your stories are always so sad. No offense but I would rather write about granddad. Will that hurt your feelings?

No, but I think that I have shared my good times as well.

It’s okay Grandma, I will write about Granddad this time. Maybe next time, okay Grandma?

As I looked back on our past conversations, I could see her point.

Gia, if that is the way that you feel...

In the past, I had seen so many Lifetime movies that were centered on grief, mental and physical abuse, assault, sexual assault, murder, and failed relationships that I felt my story was told too many times and therefore became insignificant. I had not bothered to write it. Then one day, Dejah was in one of her Creative writing zoom conference calls when I overheard her say, She is my Mama, but also my grandma. I had an epiphany.

I thought, I have already gone to therapy. The therapist was great. She helped me get my life organized again. What do I have to stop me now? No more excuses." Therapy had helped me sort out my emotions and grapple with the reality that I could not go back and change anything that had occurred in my past. I finally reached a turning point. It really put things into perspective for me, in the sense that I am a grandmother, but also had to step back into the role of a mother when Mornica passed. I can finally finish things that I could not have finished 19 years ago. I had all the thoughts, but I was afraid to relive them. I realized that everyone is going through something, whether it is some type of assault, abuse, sickness, or death. I know that this book is about many things mainly because I have been through many things-the good, the bad and the ugly. The time is now because I need to be looking out for those who come after me.

I knew that it would be difficult at first. But I can write again, and I want others to read it. In the process of writing this book, I found that for me, writing became the most therapeutic way to cope. Although there have been many tragedies in my life, I have not allowed myself to become a tragedy. All the hurt that I had to overcome had to be written. It is my story and it needs to be told. Mornica suffered. I suffered and I could not save her.

I must admit that I am a much better grandmother than I was as a parent. And I hope that my past experiences will help others to persevere and navigate life without obstacles and if there are any, they will be able to overcome them and prevail no matter the challenges.

The way to right wrongs is to turn the light of truth upon them.

— Ida B. Wells

For Mornica Winfrey-Pate

What I Remember and Cannot Forget

I recall that day with crystal clarity. It was simultaneously one of the best and worst days of my entire life; the day my time as the mother of my eldest child ended, and my time as a new mother began all over again.

It is Sunday, December 15, 2002: cloudy, cold, and rainy. We lay around watching every Dora the Explorer episode imaginable. Occasionally, Dejah asks me, Where is my mom? I say, She will be here soon. I must have made fifty phone calls that day. As the night came, I made my last phone call then put her down for the night. Neither one of us slept well that night. About five a.m. Monday morning, I jumped up from bed and immediately began calling Mornica and Charles’s phones. There was no answer. As a matter of fact, they both went straight to voicemail. I became a nervous wreck. It was so unlike her. I called Mike, he answered in his normal Illinois Department of Transportation greeting, IDOT, but before he could get it out, I said, I have called both their phones and they are going to voicemail.

He replied, Just wait until she is supposed to be at work.

This angered me. I know he was just trying to keep me from overreacting, but this was serious, and something was telling me that I was right to react the way I did.

I hung up the phone as he was saying, Keep me posted.

The hands on the clocks were not moving fast enough that morning. My nerves overtook me as all these intrusive thoughts invaded my mind. It was like she was