At 76, the mother of nine has a right to voice her discontent and enthusiasm. As her grandson I listen intently. Eager to embrace every word, this is the woman who gave me my mother and my gratitude makes me a captive audience.

Born in 1932, Daisy Mae Rogers has known the other America. In her America there were a lot of two’s. In fact there was a lot of seconds as well.

Two fountains, one that was shiny and clean, the other (if it worked) was rusty and dingy. The second fountain was for the Negroes, America’s secondhand citizens. Two wages, one that was fair for the effort contributed by the citizens whom America appreciated, the other was often unfair and required more effort for less pay. This wage was for Negroes, the secondhand citizens.

A sharecropper’s daughter, my grandmother often assisted her parents on the farm. Twenty-two years later in 1954, she started her own family in Birmingham, Alabama. By then Birmingham was known as Bombingham because of the high number of church bombings. Over fifty bombings took place between 1947 and 1965. Within a 5-year period the civil rights movement sustained some of its most staggering blows as it looked to build acceptance and equality for all.

September 15, 1963. Miles from Daisy’s home in Bombingham, the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church was bombed. This bombing received the most attention as it killed four little girls as they prepared for Sunday school in the basement of the church

November 11, 1963. For many, John F. Kennedy, 35th President of the United States, represented an evolution of a culture. His assination arguably represented the worst of this country, the killing of optimism.

April 21, 1965. A charismatic young human rights activist, minister and public figure became a martyr. Few aspire for such a title, but Malcolm X had the enthusiasm that thrust him forward. He was blatant in his critism of this country and as a result gave the ultimate sacrifice--dying for others, murdured because of his ability to inspire.

April 4, 1968. Many say that Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. sealed his fate after his speech, "A Time to Break Silence," delivered at Riverside Church, New York City, on April 4th, 1967. One year from the date of the speech Dr. King was murdered. Another inspiring optimist; a flame of hope called to give his life for what he believed in.

I asked my grandmother how these events made her feel. She sighs heavily, recalling feelings of disappointment and says, “Oh, Big Momma was so sad. Just so terribly sad ya’ know. It meant we had to try harder, so much harder. But that is just how it was, ya’ know. So we just prayed and hoped it would get better…all you could do is hope that it would get better.”

I am inspired, and intrigued by her resolve.

As we talked my eyes began to tear. The adversity that has befallen this woman makes me angry. Then my nose got stuffy and I tried to discreetly turn my head from the phone to sniffle. She sensed I was crying (she is my grandmother, my mother’s mom), and reminds me that my youth betrays me and that anger is what fills the heart in the absence of understanding and love.

I asked if they moved because of the violence in the south. If the bombings and assassinations made them scared. She doesn’t even hesitate, recalling the feelings immediately. “I wouldn’t say it was scary, though it did make me a little afraid, ya’ know. But that is not why we moved. Your grandfather needed a better job and we just figured the whole country was this way toward blacks. So we figured we needed a good job to raise a strong family until things got better, ya’ know.” She goes on to say that the whole family migrated to Boston, Massachusetts in 1968 because of employment, not fear.

Several days had passed since the election and I was eager to call Big Momma. I was curious to see her reaction to the results of our presidential election. My son is four and he knows that Barrack Hussein Obama is the President Elect. We explained it to him after he asked, “Dad why does the radio always say Bawark Obama?”

Later that day, I casually made the comment to my 12-year-old daughter that she can be anything she wants to be. She lights up and says, “Yes I can.” I know it is duly noted; I smile to myself and go to call Big Momma.

She had been anticipating my phone call and we quickly converse, both eager to talk about the election results. I asked how she feels now that it is over, and she reminds me it has just begun. ”Oh, child, Big Momma is so happy, just so very happy. This is a time that will yield many opportunities. I’ve always remained optimistic and just prayed. I am so happy and proud that this country is embracing all of its children.”

I asked what it means for her grandchildren and great grandchildren and there is a long pause on the phone. I begin tearing up, but I catch myself; this is about her happiness, not her adversity.

“This means you. All of us, in fact, can do anything you want to do if you just try and make good choices. I knew that this country was ready for something beautiful because I had to witness so much ugliness.” It is here that I reflect on my doubt. So I asked her what she thought about all of the negative ads, and what she thought of the attack stating Obama is Muslim? She laughs lightly and lets out a sigh.

“It don’t matter none at all. We all have the same father no matter what religion or color you are. One creator. It didn’t make me no difference because I knew that even if he was Muslim, he was still my brother. I just want him to do a good job.”

I am so excited to have this type of candor with my grandmother. These types of talks remind me of the silent struggle, as she calls it, that so many people endured to make understanding possible. I tell her thank you for sharing. I requested one more question and she agrees. Feeling excited that I can ask this of someone who has seen what she has seen, I wondered, “What does it mean for you, the daughter of a sharecropper?’ I can tell she is smiling as she answers.

“Child, I am happy and so proud. This means that tolerance is turning to understanding. That’s what them boys John, Malcolm and Martin died for. That’s why them poor little girls died. You can’t be angry if you believe in better days. That’s why you hope and pray that we will all understand that we ain’t nothing but each other brothers and sisters.”