C. JEMAL HORTON COLUMN: A mama’s Father’s Day (2024)

CONCORD – In the 70s, one of the most insulting “Yo Mama” jokes was this: “Yo mama wears combat boots.”

Yes, it was corny, but, hey, it was the 70s. Twitter/X and Instagram weren’t around to elicit better one-liners from all the social media comedians we have now. Plus, to be frank, according to the ridiculous social norms of the time, women were supposed to be – shall we say – less like men.

(Man, we’ve come a long way, even though we still have a long way to go.)

Anyway, this was the thing about that “Yo Mama” joke: My mama DID wear combat boots.

Mama was a 6-foot-1 staff sergeant in the U.S. Army at the time, and she would go on to have many accomplishments during her 23 years of service, including serving in Desert Storm.

So that combat boot joke never worked on me.

I was so proud of Mama for wearing combat boots. I really was. It made me stick my 10-year-old chest out to say my mama was an Airborne soldier who could probably tie your dad up into a pretzel.

And so today, on Father’s Day, I honor her, Beverly Hawley.

Honoring my mama today is not to take away anything from the actual deserving men out there. Being a father myself, I wrap my arms around all of you. I salute you.

But for me, this is my mama’s day, too.

She was the only real father that I ever knew.

See, my mama was always Super Woman to me, long before she ever put on the military fatigues. Not so much in the sense of cooking, cleaning and coddling – although she did her share of that, too. But as a single mother who provided for two kids (and later a third), kept them on track, sent them to college, and shaped them into God-fearing professionals, she was simply amazing.

I know the noble thing to say about military folks is that they joined the Army because they loved their country. My mama did, but the main reason she enlisted – at age 29, which is old by military standards – was because she wanted to be in a position to better provide for my younger sister, Annissia, and me.

All my childhood, I remember my mama doing that. Whatever – legally – it took to make a way, she did it. It was rough, but there were some good times mixed in there that made growing up in tiny Lenoir, N.C., special.

One of my fondest memories as a kid in the 70s was Friday. I lived for that day, Mama’s pay day. At the time, my mama was working at a glove factory outside Taylorsville, making 200 bucks a week, which she considered pretty good money at the time since she only had a high school diploma.

No matter what, before she paid a bill or did something for herself, she would pick me and my sister, Annissia, up on Fridays and drive us to Hickory to a place called the Omelette Shoppe so we could eat to our hearts’ desire.

The whole time my mama worked at the glove factory, even after her ex-husband put sugar in her gas tank once before she got off just to make her life more challenging, she made sure we went to the Omelette Shoppe and talked and ate.

Those times were special, just getting to see a relaxed side of my mama, joking with my sister, walking out stuffed.

But in 1979, when things got tougher after moving on from the glove factory and her late-night job at a nursing home withered away, my mama made the decision to join the Army.

Until then, I had never cried so hard.

At the time, 9 years old, I had never heard of women in the military. And all I knew about the Army was people dying out on the battlefield. But Mama assured me she would be OK and that our lives would change for the better.

It did.

With my mama in the Army, my sister and I got to see parts of the world we could have never imagined. In fact, I graduated high school in Germany and got to take trips to Spain and other countries a million miles away from Lenoir.

Along the way, of course, there were trials.

I remember when I first started playing basketball and didn’t know how. Actually, I was pretty bad, and the other kids made sure I knew it. Mama took me out back and taught me how to shoot “The Granny” shot – putting the ball between my legs and heaving it underhanded at the basket with two hands, Rick Barry style. It was the ugliest shot ever, but it worked until I was able to figure things out later.

I remember when I wanted to go to my first school dance and needed to wear a tie. Well, I didn’t know how to tie a tie, and I didn’t have a man in my life to show me. Ever resourceful, my mama went to her job, asked the male soldiers there how to do it, and then came home and taught me.

The dance was a success, all because of my mama.

And, yes, there were times when my teenage mind felt betrayed by Mama.

Why wasn’t she there for all my high school basketball games? Other players’ mothers were. I had improved greatly, to the point of being an all-conference player, and was popular with students and teammates. Didn’t she care?

As time passed, I discovered that Mama wasn’t there because she was working, trying to keep food on the table, trying to buy me sneakers and the like. Or the dilapidated car we had wasn’t able to make the four-hour roundtrip to and from my home games, let alone the road trips.

But it melted my heart to find out that even though she wasn’t there for games, she had collected all my newspaper clippings and kept them in a scrapbook that she later gave to me.

She WAS there, like a proud father. In her own way. That meant the world to me.

Later, my mama gave me one of the greatest gifts she ever could: education.

I remember, after I had been accepted to college, having to turn in the financial aid forms. My mom had to list her income, and I remember being shocked by the number: a little more than $19,000.

Two growing teenagers on 19 grand a year?

“I want you to be able to do better,” Mama told me.

When I first went to college, my mother tried to commit to sending me $200 a month to live on. She didn’t want me to struggle by trying to work a job and “get your lessons,” as she used to say.

But Mama had taught me to survive, she had taught me to be strong. So, without asking her, I got a job at McDonald’s and worked there through my junior year at N.C. Central University. I was a man now, and there was nothing she could say.

Once a month, I would buy $10 in quarters from the cashiers at my McDonald’s job and pour it into the pay phone – hey, this was the late 80s – and call Mama in Germany, where she was still stationed. It was less than a 10-minute call, but it was time that I cherished.

At 18, I was showing Mama that I was a man. The kind of man she’d taught me to be.

Now anyone who knows me knows that I’ve made mistakes along the way, sometimes – often – going astray from the example Mama set for me. But the core lessons of work ethic, dedication and passion have always stayed.

These days, Mama is pushing 75 years old, and she doesn’t move the way she used to. It crushes me to hear about her health problems, even though she often hides them from me to protect me.

But she’s still Super Woman to me. She’s still the first woman I ever loved. She still inspires me, she still lifts me up.

Mama gave birth to me when she was just 19, when the world was her oyster, when she was still dreaming big. She was a math genius and driven. She literally could’ve done anything she wanted. And, in all honesty, she could’ve just corrected her misstep with a medical procedure and gone on with her life.

But instead, being a kid herself, she tried to raise a man.

One of the hardest jobs for anyone, regardless of sex.

So now, as a grizzled dad myself, I proudly say Happy Father’s Day, Mama. I thank you. I love you.

And, for the record, you made combat boots fashionable.