Sunday, May 9 is the national observance of Mother’s Day. For people who are fortunate to still have a living mother or a mother who takes part in child-rearing, the day will be spent by pampering the woman responsible for giving life. While Mother’s Day is often a celebratory day, for many Black LGBTQ+ people, it can also be a day filled with the opposite emotion. Far too many Black LGBTQ+ people have faced rejection based upon their sexual orientation or gender identity. Those stories are real and must be acknowledged and told, if for no other reason, but to serve as a deterrent for it ever happening again. 

On The Reckoning, we focused our attention on three Black LGBTQ+ Atlantans and their unique relationship with their mothers that blossomed despite the initial shock of learning that their child identified as LGBTQ+. From the journey of reconciling religious beliefs to making room for gay and lesbian couples to exist within the context of marriage to acknowledging the preferred pronouns and name change of her trans daughter, the unconditional love expressed by the mothers of these LGBTQ+ children runs deep. 

As we approach Mother’s Day, read what these LGBTQ+ Atlantans had to say as adults about being their mother’s child in their own words. 

Anthony Antoine

Recording Artist/Community Activist

“I am a bonafide, proudly proclaimed momma’s boy. I call or text my mom daily. I still climb into her bed to sleep or talk when I visit her home. I look forward to her extended stays at my house and our traveling on vacation together. Her hugs are medicinal, absolutely healing while her prayers sustain me. That said, I remember the anxiety I felt when I called to invite her to my wedding. I put off the call for days and as the call unfolded; I struggled to find the right words. I was like a 12-year-old child somehow believing that this conversation was going to result in me being disappointed or even worse, me disappointing my mom. My mom is deeply Christian, often stern Bible-believing, and while I knew she loved me and displayed that love often, I also knew her personal yet evolving views on gay marriage. This was only ever intellectually discussed and never examined as a real-life choice for her son. I thought that maybe me asking her to show up at my wedding would cross the line. Sure, she loved my fiancé Michael, too—visited our home often and embraced him as her son. But Mom at a gay wedding? What would the rest of the family think? What would her spirituality guide her to do? 

I even described my love union pejoratively; through the lens of internalized homophobia that I was sure I left behind decades ago. How dare I invite my mom to some frilly, gay-ass wedding? Then the activist, grown man, kicked in. I stood in my truth. How dare I not invite my mom to the happiest day of my life? I connected with the very real feeling that her not being there would be a mother/son relationship crime, that it would crush me, so I had to ask. 

I will never forget the day. I was driving when she randomly called, and I found the courage. I swallowed a brick as I asked, ‘Mom, Michael and I are getting married, and I want you to be there,’ I said. She light-heartedly laughed at my clear anxiety in the words but quickly said, ‘yes!’ I added, ‘But Mom, I want you there because you want to be there to support our union.’ Firmly, she replied, ‘I’m your mother. I will always be your mother and I love you unconditionally. Where else will I be when my first-born son is getting married but there to love and support you?’ I cried. And then I exhaled. But of course, my mom would be there to support her son’s ultimate joy. How dare I think otherwise?”

Elder Rahkel Henry 

Hairstylist/Trans Woman of Faith 

“When the time came to transition, I felt like I had the right and or the authority to say, you don't get to let me go. We were going to be on this journey together. It's been a long journey, but I wouldn't take anything from it because our journey has been authentic. My mom could have thrown me away. I've heard so many stories about parents throwing their children away. My mother said to me, one time, "God gave you to me. And so I didn't have the right to get rid of you. If God gave you to me, then God knew what God was doing.” 

So there is nothing I can't talk to my mom about. There is no space and or place in my life that we cannot coexist. My mom is my number one girl. She could have rightly chosen to let go. And because she did not, as long as I live, I'll give her her flowers because she stayed on this journey with her child, with the assignment that the Lord gave her. Deirdre Irene Henry, that’s my girl. July 24, 1960, was a great day because the Lord allowed my grandmother to give birth to who I would know as my savior outside of the Lord. My mom has been my saving grace. 

I’ve watched parents give up on their children, and it’s one reason why I introduce my mom to people because my mom is loving. I don’t care who I introduce to her, my mom will love them. I’m her child and she chose to love me, but that didn’t mean she had to love the children of other parents who happen to be trans, or gay, or lesbian. My mother isn't uncomfortable in the company of my friends or associates. When my mom is there, the [people in the] room enjoy themselves, even more, to know that a parent is there. 

My mother's hand has been a part of my life since birth, and at 45, my mother's hand is still on my life. I don't know what it is to be shipped off or have someone else raise me. I don't remember a time that I've received an award or been in a play or sang somewhere and I didn't look out into the audience and my mom was right there.” 

Erin Michelle Washington 

Professor of Theater and Performance, Spelman College 

“It's wild growing up in the deep red clay dirt South. It's intense and dull at the same time. I am sure I did not grow up to be the woman my mother thought I would be. Did any of us? I left home at 18 in search of becoming an artist. I moved to California at 22 to see the world and be in it. At 25, I moved to New York with my first female partner and our world shifted. 

My mother, daughter of a Native man and educator, who is the center of her social networks, teaches me how to be an independent woman who has my own ideas. She crafts a space for me. Her role as a mother is not her only existence—she is free. I’ve never seen my mother plant anything or wear ugly sweaters. My mom came to school events in leather and Chanel. My mother, Alabama-born and raised, never interviewed for a job but walked into her blessings. My mother is one of the strongest people I have ever known in my life.

I honor my mother. She has stood up for me during times I was ashamed. My mother has never taken her love away from me, even when I knew she was uncomfortable. My mother has shown me the power of truth and love. My mother accepts me as the queer Blk radical artist I am. She always has. From a kid when I dressed in too big shorts and refused a purse, to now when I ask about shades of red lipstick and mascara. My mother has the answer to every question I have thought to ask.

I pray she knows how influential she is to me.

And not because I am queer.

And not because I am Blk.

And not because I am an artist.

Because I am her child. 

Her creation.

Her imagination in motion.

I pray to love her openly every day I can beyond the limits of time and space.

Sandra Elaine Whatley Washington, I am glad we chose each other in this life. May we keep choosing.”