by Abdul-Hakim Shabazz, Esq.
My mother was my biggest fan. She loved all her children equally, but ours was a little different. I think in part because I was a difficult pregnancy, to put it mildly, and we both didn’t nearly make it. I like to tell her that was the most trouble I ever gave her. She was always big on education, so when I told her I was going to grad school and later law school, you could hear her cheering a mile away.
My mother did a lot of things. She was a small businesswoman with her own catering company. She sewed. She was a homemaker who helped raise seven children. She also had an artistic bent — played in the marching band in high school and had a habit of sketching her children on drawing pads. She knew how to feed an army, or at least five boys. You’d be amazed at what you can do with powdered milk and a regular milk carton when no one’s looking. And she had this uncanny gift for packing, as evidenced by successfully moving our family to Germany and back — 1986 to 1990, the whole household. The woman could have been a world champion Tetris player back in the 1990s.
My personal favorite story was when I went through my bar exam experience. We would chat a couple of times a day, usually in the morning and later in the evening after studying all day. And when I was told I failed, she had her words of encouragement. And when news broke I passed after an error on the multistate part (not after three attempts as some have alleged), her words: “I knew they couldn’t keep my baby down!”
But as much as she was a big supporter, she was also a firm disciplinarian. She would make you go in the backyard and get the switch yourself. And don’t bring back one too small. There is nothing more psychologically intimidating than walking into the yard to get the instrument of your own punishment.
Now, please note, being the perfect child, I never got the switch treatment. For me, it was this: whenever I would get “to be a bit much,” my mother would just simply give me that look and tell me, “Abdul, you need to listen.” Things got quiet after that.
The perfect example was back when I was doing morning talk radio in Springfield at WMAY, and the topic was breastfeeding in public. My mother was a big fan. She was my guest on the show that morning. I was opposed to it. So we had the discussion, but I forgot I was talking to my mother and turned on obnoxious talk show host. Bad move. My mother kept trying to interrupt me. She said, “Abdul. Abdul!! Abdul!!!” I kept going. And then she put the foot down: “Young man, that’s enough. You need to listen!”
My reply: “Yes, ma’am.”
The audience’s reply — well, let’s just say it was the closing scene of Return of the Jedi, where the galaxy is cheering at the fall of the empire. My program director, who was listening, asked how she did that. I told him, easy — almost died giving me birth.
My mother also had a great relationship with the current Lovely Mrs. Shabazz — my wife. They hit it off the first time they met, which meant I was doomed from day one. Two of them, comparing notes. There’s a small irony in the timing: when my mother was later tested for Alzheimer’s, the doctors traced it back to 2007 — the same year I met my wife. So in a way, the woman who would become my biggest ally and the woman who had been my biggest fan overlapped at exactly the moment one was beginning to slip away. I didn’t know it then, but the handoff had already started.
Telling these stories is therapeutic, as she has been gone for seven years. And I always take Mother’s Day weekend to reflect on my former biggest fan. She tolerated my annoying comic book habit, put up with my “personality,” and most importantly, gave me praise when it was earned and a smack on the back of the head when I needed it.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Abdul-Hakim Shabazz is the editor and publisher of Indy Politics. He is also an attorney licensed in Indiana and Illinois.
