There is an artist, one whose gift was shaped by the whispers of grace through struggle by those who came before her. There is an artist, one whose gift was created by her strong, inner patience and passion for her craft. There is an artist, one who is fashioning the same gift in those who hold their legacy, and those who are just bystanders in their earthly journey. Black women throughout history have been an artistic society unto themselves, whose talents have been stifled by the dominant race, whose talents have been barely known unto themselves. These women of passionate fire maintained steady elegance in times of chaos and destruction, maintained a power, an aura of determined confidence. Their winged spirits rose above the anguish of day-to-day life and flew free from the freedom bound by chains of discrimination and racism . From generation to generation their fierce pride and resilient nature has been passed on to those who go forward to carry on their story. These women are not just black women; they are first and foremost grandmothers, mothers, sisters, and daughters. Focused and self assured the mother is the core. A mother, one whose job is never through, whose loving kindness is the foundation to her descendants. As a child I can’t remember a time when I came inside from play and wasn’t welcomed with the scents of a home-cooked meal, a Christmas where the house wasn’t decorated just right, a night when my mother wouldn’t walk into my room while I was asleep just to kiss my forehead once more. Though I wasn’t always greeted with her presence upon return from school, I knew she was out doing what had to be done so I could have such memories. From graduation parties to family dinners, all were pulled off by her patience under stress. And because of this I am able to say, I know an artist: An artist whose gift was shaped by the whispers of grace through struggle by her grandmother and those who came before her; an artist whose gift was created by her strong inner patience and passion for her craft; an artist who is fashioning the same gift in her children and nephew, an as well as in her many students and those who are merely bystanders in her earthly journey, and artist who can be placed in the ranks with Ella Fitzgerald, Zora Neale Hurston, Harriet Tubman, and Rosa Parks. Though her name might not be in books, or in the learned memory of those around the world, it is still a legacy that will one day shape a Sojourner Truth or a Bessie Coleman. She is an artist, friend, teacher, daughter, wife, but, most importantly, my mother.