Women’s History Wasn’t Only Built By Giants
A Tribute to My Mom on her 100th Birthday
By Keith A. Owens
Mom would have been 100 years old yesterday.
Born Geneva Mildred McNamee on March 13, 1922, in Dewey, Oklahoma, her parents were Henry Wardell McNamee and Fannie McNamee. Grandaddy was a school superintendent, my grandmother (whom I never met because she died in her 40s from an illness brought on by diabetes is what I recall being told) was a homemaker.
Henry and Fannie had six children; Nolan (“Snooks”), Marie, Geneva, Cecil (“Sonny”), George, and Jean. I’m not sure if I got the age order right but I think I did. George was killed at age 12 by accident when he went hunting with my Uncle Sonny. They were best friends according to what my mother remembered. She also recalled that George was probably the kindest child in the family. His death devastated the family, especially Sonny who was there sitting beside George when it happened. Apparently, they accepted a ride from someone driving a truck and hopped in back. They placed their guns behind them, and when the truck hit a bump in the road, George’s gun went off and shot him in the back. The shot killed him straight away.
But there were the good times too. Mom said she was the fastest girl in the town and could also outrun most of the boys whenever they had foot races down the street. And then there was that one summer when there wasn’t much to do (not unlike other summers in Dewey) so they decided to scare the hell out of a couple of neighbors. I remember my mother said that the man’s name was Mr. Floyd, and he was extremely thin (I think maybe his first name was Floyd, but anyway). His wife, Mrs. Floyd, was, well, the stark opposite of that.
Mr. Floyd and his wife were both the superstitious types with some rather odd beliefs, so the McNamee kids decided to get a couple of sheets and drape them over some nearby cornstalks. Then they tied a string around each cornstalk and pulled the strings through the bedroom window. Then they waited for dusk to come as the wind blew the curtains about. As it got close to dark, right on schedule, Mr. and Mrs. Floyd exited the house across the street and headed for their car. Mom remembers this as the time when Uncle Snooks began yanking on the strings as the others made spooky noises. Mr. and Mrs. Floyd looked across the street, took one look at those sheets waving back and forth in the wind, heard those eerie noises, and took off down the street. As Mom told it, Mrs. Floyd hopped in the car and drove away with Mr. Floyd yelling and screaming in pursuit.
But the false ghosts could never chase away the reality of the times. Like most places in America back then, segregation was in full force. White water fountains and colored water fountains. My mother recalled the time when she scared her father to death when she discovered there was no water coming out of the “colored” water fountain, so she decided to walk across the train station to the white water fountain and began drinking. Perhaps the only thing that saved her and her father’s life from a considerably worse ending is that the train conductor in the station knew my grandfather since he was a superintendent at the Black school in town. So he hollered out “McNamee!”, and pointed angrily at my mother, at which point Grandaddy raced over to snatch my mother mid-slurp from the fountain. Mom said she was old enough to know better, but she was thirsty and didn’t feel like being obedient to what the white folks wanted, because what they wanted was wrong.
Mom also told me a story about a school dance that she organized for the kids in her class. The details are sketchy, but what stands out in my memory of her retelling is that there was only one place in town where such a dance could be held, and it was whites-only. How she did it I don’t know, but somehow my mother, at age 12, managed to talk whoever was in charge (most likely with Grandaddy and/or Grandma nearby) into letting her and her classmates have their dance in that hall. It was the first time the hall had ever been used by Black people.
By the time I was born to Geneva McNamee Owens (her friends called her ‘Mac’ because she didn’t particularly like the name ‘Geneva’ and hardly anyone even knew about her middle name ‘Mildred’) and Sebastian Cabot Owens, the couple had been married and residents of Denver, Colorado for ten years and had almost given up on having a child. In fact, they were in the process of adoption when it was discovered that I wasn’t a lump, I was a kid. Or something like that. Anyway, everybody was really happy. Which is a good thing.
Mom was a classically-trained pianist who had always dreamed of being a classical performer. But there weren’t many options for a Black woman who dreamed of playing classical piano at Carnegie Hall, so her dreams eventually took a back seat and she became a teacher. She was an excellent teacher. She had taught mostly middle school-aged kids for years before I came along and then she and Dad decided that she would devote her time to raising me while he went to work as Executive Director of the Colorado Urban League. Which is what she did, in truth, until she died in 2016 at the age of 93. Because she never stopped raising me and, in truth, I’m still learning from her even though she has been gone for six years now.
I can still feel her teaching me ways to improve my swimming stroke as I do my morning laps at the Y. Because even though she and Dad got me enrolled in swim lessons at the Jewish Community Center when I was about 5 or 6, it was really Mom who taught me how to swim the right way years later when I was nearly 30. Mom was around 65 at the time, and she didn’t even learn how to swim until she was about 50. (Grandaddy taught the boys how to swim in a muddy swimming hole not too far away from the family home in Dewey, but he felt it was unseemly for his girls to swim in a muddy hole. Mom joked that you can drown in muddy water just like clean water.)
Within about five or so years after her first lesson, Mom was winning or placing high in local senior swim competitions.
That was Mom.
Mom was also the first African American woman (or person, I’m pretty sure) to become a docent at the Denver Art Museum. She gave tours in the Asian Art section of the museum for more than 40 years. She was one of the best tour guides that the museum ever had, and there wasn’t much argument about that. When she first showed up, they figured she would want to give tours in the African Art section, because isn’t that what any Black person would want to do?
No. Not if you knew my mother.
This isn’t to say Mom didn’t love African art or African culture. But if you thought she’d be so great telling people about African art, why would you think she wasn’t qualified to understand and teach Asian art? Because that is exactly what they thought. Until Mom made them choke on their own ignorance and assumptions. She was done being told where to drink her water.
That was you, Mom. That was you. And you accomplished so many other things in your life, and Lord knows there are so many more stories that I could tell. But I think we can stop right here for now, if that’s OK. Because as I celebrate your 100th birthday during Women’s History Month, I just had to tell you again how much I love you, will always love you, and how I learn more and more each day how remarkable you were. And are.
I have never needed to go to the history books for heroes, Mom. You represent all the heroes I have ever needed.
I love this! Your Mom sounds like an amazing woman, full of some interesting stories. Your tribute to her is beautiful. It's clear she made, and continues to make, a huge impact on your life.