In Remembrance of RoseLee Massey 

My grandmother went by a slew of names – she called herself Rosalee, folks on the block like her neighbor upstairs Audrey called her Ms. Rose, the elders in my family she grew up with lovingly called her Shug (pronounced like sugar), a few called her Rose, my mom of course called her Mommy, and my brother and I called her a couple different iterations of grandma, one that sticks out to me the most was Grand. 

Grand she was. She worked as a housekeeper to families she looked after on Long Island, quite a distance from Harlem where she resided a couple blocks from the Apollo theater. She worked tirelessly preparing meals, doing laundry, cleaning houses and raising the children. My mother and I get our work ethic from her because rain or shine, that woman went to work and gave nothing but a 100% while there. She was in high demand especially for her lavish meals and expert kosher cooking – she catered and hosted hundreds of diner parties completely on her own.

Her work ethic is what brought her to New York. She was born and raised in Sumter, South Carolina and worked on the cotton field from the time she was old enough to start picking it, until she about 15 or 16 years old. She picked cotton so efficiently that her uncle made a promise to that he’d send her to New York as a prize. He kept his promise and for the next 10 years or so, she’d go back and forth between both her homes, until she settled permanently on 121st between 7th and 8th for nearly 50 years. That’s just one of the fascinating stories of my grandmother partially told to me by her, and by my now deceased relatives, when I was growing up. 

By the time I started kindergarten my grandmother finally retired, but by then she was a well oiled machine and since her job was maintaining homes, it wasn’t a skill she put could down after she hung up apron for the last time. Her house was impeccably maintained, she loved to host, and each summer my job was her little helper. 

I enjoyed accompanying her to the supermarket, going to the laundromat and washing all the linens, and going to church with her each Sunday. What I didn’t enjoy was how strict she was, confining me to just the stoop where she could see me, and the other old fashion arbitrary rules she had for little girls. I had a complicated relationship with my grandmother. Unlike my mom who endured it all and remained lovingly by her side until the end, I pulled away in my adolescence, remembering some of the not so pleasant occurrences she put me through each summer she took care of me full time. 

I know she loved her family beyond measure, but when I knew her she was simply tired and what we got was a fraction of who her work families got. My mom had stories of my grandmother coming home and her greeting her excitingly wanting to share her day, and my grandmother pushing her away opting for a seat on the couch where she would doze off, feet up in front of the TV. 

She died when I was fifteen and that came with a sense of freedom, but now in my 30s, and with my mom now ill, I think of her often and miss her more than ever. She was a literal giant at almost six feet like me, was the scariest thing on the planet and could stop your heart beat with just a look, but she was also warm, caring, and the best big sister to her siblings, who’s children remember her fondly to this day. I see my grandma in my mother and the older I get I see her in myself too. I know if she were around today she’d be proud of me and the way I look after my mother. She taught me resiliency and defiance, never forgetting who I am and never conforming. She is the reason I take pride and I can only work for my myself now. She is was the original boss and the reason why watching The Help is triggering.  

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RoseLee Massey was my original mentor and she deserved better from this world. I pay homage to her and I have my work ethic because of her guidance and discipline.