Cowboy Carter Was More Than a Concert—It Was a Spiritual Experience

Everyone’s out here speculating about Act III, but honestly…I’m not ready for Act II to end. Cowboy Carter has felt like a spiritual, ancestral experience—one that reached across time and memory and found me exactly where I was.

Y’all. I need Beyoncé to drop a Cowboy Carter movie or documentary because I was OBSESSED with the video interludes. The visuals were stunning. The storytelling was cinematic. I only made it to the last show and avoided every livestream like my life depended on it, so most of the show felt brand new to me.

I had been looking forward to hearing “Daughter” live since my very first listen, and she did not disappoint. I was not ready. And that “This is theater” interlude with the dress that literally transforms mid-performance—I had seen the pics, but I didn’t realize the dress actually changes like that. Icon behavior.

Now here's where it gets wild. My niece put me on to this Houston restaurant called Spaghetti Western, and it became our go-to family meal spot. That spiraled me into a full spaghetti western rabbit hole, so when Beyoncé started giving us cowboy grit and cinema realness, I was locked in. The way she worked Caro mio ben into the western vibe felt like a haunting little hymn floating across the desert. And honestly, adding an Italian opera to a spaghetti western aesthetic just makes sense—those films are Italian at their core, dramatic by design, and full of long stares, emotional tension, and soaring scores.

Westerns had become a weekly thing in our lives thanks to my uncle—so Cowboy Carter felt like it landed right in the middle of our real life. He was living with my mom, who could no longer care for him and needed care herself, so we were going over more frequently. Those cozy watch nights became a kind of unspoken ritual during a season when a lot was shifting at home.

Later that year, I pre-ordered the art book thinking I’d just flip through it on the couch in peace. I didn’t know how much I was going to need that book. I didn’t have any Christmas plans last year, but a bunch of my extended family also ended up going to the Beyoncé Bowl, so we tailgated together and turned it into this beautiful, joyful surprise celebration.

The art book got delayed, and it didn’t arrive until the week of my mom’s memorial service. People were mad that the “exclusive” shirt we got for waiting was eventually made available to everyone, but it said “100,000 watts of healing power”—and I needed every single watt.

This whole era has meant so much to me. It’s been personal. It's been healing. And it’s been peak Beyoncé. I could go on forever.

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Nomads, Nature, and the Myth of Permanence: A Childhood Theory That Still Makes Sense

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When I was a kid, I came up with a theory—completely unresearched, just a thought that popped into my head and stuck with me: maybe people used to be nomads because of the weather.

It made perfect sense to me. I had just learned about birds migrating for the winter and how they fly south when it gets too cold. So I thought, why wouldn’t people do the same? Why would anyone just sit still in one place, waiting for storms or snow or heatwaves to pass, when they could simply move?

I didn’t know anything about historical climate patterns, ancient civilizations, or housing developments. I just had questions—and this one stuck. As I got older, I noticed that this theory kept resurfacing every time a natural disaster made headlines.

Flooding, tornadoes, hurricanes, wildfires—every time one of these events happened, I found myself thinking, should people even live there permanently? I don’t mean that judgmentally. I know people don’t always have the option to pick up and go. Jobs, family, economics, and deep generational ties keep people rooted. But the question still lingers: Is this a place meant for permanence?

Because here’s the truth—many of the most beautiful, fertile, or resource-rich places are also places prone to natural disruption. River valleys flood. Coastal towns get hurricanes. Plains face tornadoes. Deserts get scorching heat and wildfires. And yet, we build and rebuild, with the assumption that our homes and cities are forever.

I lived next to the Mississippi River for two years and saw firsthand how the water would rise and fall. Quiet one day, almost touching the roads another. There was a rhythm to it, a flow that didn’t ask for permission. That river wasn’t interested in our timetables or property lines. It was just being what it has always been: a river.

It’s strange, then, how we often act surprised when nature does what it naturally does. After a flood or a tornado, you’ll sometimes hear people say things like, “God must be angry.” But I don’t think that’s it at all. I think we forget—maybe even refuse to believe—that nature has a life of its own. The dry creek bed won’t stay dry forever. The wind won’t always be still. The ground beneath us can and will shift, and the skies can turn on us with little warning.

That’s not punishment. That’s nature.

And yet, modern life is built on the idea of permanence. We construct homes, sign 30-year mortgages, buy insurance policies, and make long-term plans. We treat the land as fixed, as if it’s supposed to adjust to us. But history—and nature—show us again and again that this isn’t how it works.

Maybe that childhood theory wasn’t so far off. Maybe being nomadic wasn’t just about hunting and gathering or avoiding enemies—it was about listening to the land. Moving with it. Responding to its rhythms instead of trying to dominate them.

I’m not saying we all need to pack up and start roaming again (though van life TikTok is trying). But maybe we need to rethink what “permanent housing” really means in places where nature is known to have the final say. Maybe our definitions of safety, security, and “home” need to evolve to include mobility, adaptability, and humility.

Because when we treat disasters like surprises—like interruptions—we miss the deeper truth: this is the natural flow of life. We can prepare, build better, relocate if necessary. But first, we have to remember that we’re not separate from nature. We’re a part of it.

And sometimes, just like the birds, we may need to move.

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Reflection Questions for Readers:

• Are there places you’ve lived where the land seemed to “speak” in its own way—rising waters, strong winds, shifting earth?

• What does “permanence” mean to you, and has that definition changed over time?

• How can we honor both our desire to root and our need to adapt?

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Technology Should Free Us, Not Replace Us: Rethinking Work, Worth, and Space in a Capitalist World

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how we respond to technology and change—especially AI—and how that ties into bigger questions about work, worth, and what it means to have “enough.”

There’s a lot of fear around AI replacing jobs, and honestly, I get it. When you hear that machines can do things faster, cheaper, and better than humans, it’s natural to worry about what that means for your place in the world. But here’s the thing: making tedious, repetitive work easier shouldn’t be a threat—it should be a relief.

If someone spent 40+ hours a week mopping floors or doing other physically exhausting, monotonous tasks, why shouldn’t a machine or AI step in and take over? It means that person can focus on something more fulfilling, creative, or simply enjoy more free time. This shift shouldn’t make anyone feel “worthless.” Humans are valuable not just for what they produce, but for who they are. And in a fair world, if businesses can make billions by cutting production costs with technology, they should absolutely use some of those resources to care for their workers—to ensure everyone benefits, not just the owners.

That’s the problem with how our society currently operates. The capitalist system pushes us to prioritize profit and production above all else, and that can make people feel disposable if they’re no longer “productive” in the traditional sense. It’s no wonder there’s anxiety around AI and automation—it feels like if you don’t keep up, you’ll be left behind, with fewer social supports to catch you.

This connects with another thing I’ve noticed in my own life: my husband and I live in a four-bedroom, two-story house with a den and a large kitchen. That’s a lot of space for just two people. We don’t have seven kids or even a large extended family living with us—although we’ve had up to seven guests stay overnight once or twice. In theory, more people could live here with us, and that’s what this kind of house is designed for: accommodating bigger groups, families, or even shared living arrangements.

But here’s the catch—most people don’t want to share their space. They want their “own space.” And that’s totally normal. But it also means a lot of us live physically isolated from one another, even when we have the room to build community under one roof. Inviting someone to live with you isn’t just about space; it’s about building a relationship, agreeing on rules, navigating boundaries, and sharing your life. That requires effort—something capitalism doesn’t necessarily reward or encourage.

Instead, capitalism often pushes the idea that the way to succeed is to work harder, make more money, and buy more stuff—bigger houses, more cars, fancier gadgets—whether or not that actually makes us happier or more connected. We’re stuck chasing more, thinking it equals success, but often it just means more distance—from each other and from what truly matters.

So yes, I’m all for technology and innovation. I want tedious jobs automated and machines to make life easier. But I also want us to remember that humans are more than cogs in a production line. Technology should free us from drudgery, not make us feel obsolete.

And having “enough” shouldn’t just be about how much stuff or space we have—it should mean having enough connection, care, and support. If there’s extra space in a house, why not use it to build community? If technology can make us more productive, why not let that productivity support a better quality of life for everyone, not just the wealthy?

At the end of the day, it’s not about fighting technology or fearing progress. It’s about redefining what we value: prioritizing humanity over production, relationships over possessions, and care over mere efficiency.

💐 “Irma Jean: Silent, Stitched, and Supreme” 💐

In honor of what would have been her 92nd birthday, let's talk about Irma Jean.

Let the record show: her name was Irma Jean Jackson, not “Imogene,” no matter what the 1940 U.S. Census claimed. She wasn’t a typo—she was a force of starch and sass. Born in Marion, Texas, Irma came into the world in the heart of the Great Depression, on Smithland Road, where chickens roamed the yard like feathered bouncers, and washing laundry was a full-body CrossFit class.

In that 1940 census, little 7-year-old Irma was living with her parents Sylvester and Julia Jackson and five siblings in a wooden house that probably creaked with every prayer. It was country. Like "eat your bathwater-warmed biscuits on the porch while dodging wasps" country. 

🌳And then came the Tree Incident of ‘45.🌳

See, Irma’s little sister Charles Etta was six years younger than her, and seven younger than their sister Lulu. Which meant by the time Irma and Lulu were full-blown, tree-climbing teenagers, Charles Etta had entered her "Wait for meeee!" era. So there they were—Irma, Lulu, and baby Charles Etta—scaling trees like squirrels on a sugar high, and then jumping out like there was a prize for landing flair. But poor Charles Etta? She jumped, landed funky, and broke her arm.

Now, Irma and Lulu knew the stakes. If anything happened to Charles Etta—even if it was her fault—it was automatically their fault. So what did they do? They tucked her into bed like a porcelain doll and told every adult who came by that she was just... very tired. Super sleepy. Had a long day of being six. Meanwhile, Charles Etta was laying there with a whole broken arm, blinking at the ceiling like. 

From those dusty red roads, she sprouted something elegant, no-chaser. By 1950, now a teenager on Old Gin Road, Irma had already mastered the art of the quiet power play. She didn’t say much—but her hands? Always in motion. She sewed her own clothes like a runway designer with a chicken coop side hustle. But this wasn’t just Sunday-best sewing. She let her siblings pick their own fabric. That meant her mama might show up in paisley holiness while Queen Esther strutted in leopard print like a sanctified runway model.

Fashion democracy. Early edition.

Somewhere between threading needles and feeding chickens, Irma enrolled at Texas Southern University, back when it was becoming the Ivy League for folks with hot comb burns and big dreams. The exact dates are fuzzy, but that school ID? Real. And she was snatched to the gods in that photo.

Then came the job at Hermann Hospital. Being a Black woman in medicine in the 1950s was like being a unicorn in a snowstorm—rare, magical, and expected to fix everything. To even walk into Hermann as a nurse’s aide, you had to:

• Pass anatomy while fighting systemic racism

• Master hygiene protocols while dodging discrimination 

• Lift patients in the ER while carrying the weight of generational racism

• And rock a starched uniform so crisp it could slice through barriers 

Irma's uniforms had creases sharp enough to file your taxes.

And it was on one of those mornings—leaving Kashmere Gardens, catching a city bus to the Texas Medical Center—that she changed the course of history.

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💘 “The Love Route: Third Ward Edition” 💘

Willard Jacquot lived on Tuam, smack dab in the middle of Third Ward royalty. He missed his usual bus one morning and, instead of waiting, took the scenic route. Destiny wears a uniform, apparently.

There on that bus: Irma. Quiet. Pressed uniform. Posture like a ballet dancer in court. Seat beside her? Empty.

Willard slid into that seat like it was musical chairs and said hi. Irma blinked. Gave him absolutely nothing.

He got off the bus dazed like, “Lord, send a follow-up plan.”

And He did. It came in the form of gossip, coworker intel, and a string of rom-com level shenanigans. Willard was out here dropping quarters into payphones like he was trying to win a radio contest. Took five buses just to MAYBE see her again. That’s not romance. That’s a Houston Transit Odyssey with a layover in desperation.

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🧵 Marriage, Motherhood & Machine Oil 🧵

They got married. Bought a house in Settegast, where the BBQ smoke is spiritual and the kids play double dutch in church shoes.

Irma had seven kids and a sewing machine that could outrun a sports car. Baptismal gowns? Check. School clothes? Done. Church fits? Custom couture. Curtain panels? You know she hemmed those too.

She didn’t yell. She just sewed faster.

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👥 The House of Controlled Chaos 🚨

Most mornings began with her sewing machine—clack-clack-clack—setting the rhythm of the house like a DJ on a mission.

One day, she sat near the back window with a spool of red thread, sewing “Ron” on a uniform. The house was suspiciously quiet.

Enter Esther, waving a report card like she was about to get knighted. “All A’s, Mama!”

Irma, eyebrow raised like a lie detector test, said one syllable: “Hmm.”

Translation: Bloop, you tried it.

Turns out Esther had forged every F into an A with more confidence than a bootleg tattoo artist. And then Laura, resident snitch, rolled in with timestamps and forensic handwriting analysis.

Irma? Still calm. “Hmm.”

Then came the hallway crash. Evelyn vs. Michael, WWE edition. Irma didn’t flinch. Just stepped in like Moses parting the Red Sea of sibling violence.

Ron, meanwhile, chewing toast like he knew too much. She asked who started it. Ron began gulping like he swallowed a frog. “Maybe...Michael?”

Broom. Instantly handed over. Justice delivered.

Then Gerald, the baby, came sliding in like Scooby-Doo, grinning for hugs and possibly hiding some crayons in his pocket. She rubbed his head and kept sewing.

Because even when the whole house sounded like a live sitcom, Irma was the laugh track, the director, and the producer.

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🍾 Sakowitz Sundays 🌟

Willard told his uncle he dressed his wife up real good to go to church. Like, Sakowitz good.

That’s not just a flex. That’s a Black Excellence fashion thesis. Sakowitz was Houston’s homegrown palace of luxury retail—where high fashion met Southern elegance, and shopping was as much a social event as a transaction. Going in there and picking out clothes with your wife? That was main-character energy.

His uncle noticed that Irma was always solo at church and warned that men at church probably thought she was single, so Willard started dressing up faster than her and attending too. A few weeks later? He got baptized. She got backup.

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🌿 The Hiram Clarke Years 🌿

Eventually, they moved to Hiram Clarke. Newer streets. Younger neighbors.

Willard bought a service station in South Park. But Irma? Irma ran the kingdom.

She:

• Bought inventory like a retail general

• Decorated with spark plugs and style

• Sewed name patches like she was dressing oil-stained royalty

And her sanctuary? That backyard was Eden with a southern twist.

She brought plants from Settegast and grew roses, bachelor's buttons, pecans, cotton, cucumbers, Chinese plums, grapefruit, figs...

She used her own homegrown cotton to dab alcohol for her insulin. Not once. Every time.

She made fig preserves so good, Willard kept eating them YEARS after she left us.

And let’s not forget the front room: sacred space. No kids. Just fancy furniture and an upright piano she played like the soundtrack of a lifetime. No one knows where she learned it. Probably just absorbed it through her spirit.

When dialysis and amputation entered the picture, Irma turned her wheelchair into a wheelbarrow. She gardened, she polished, she reached bookshelves taller than me with a rag, pledge, and the will of a warrior.

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🛶 The Last Visit 🛶

I lived in that house from age 5 to 22. When I moved out, she was sad. That same year, she had heart blockage. Got bypass surgery like a champ.

Next thing I know, I visit after work. She’s sitting up in a glamorous nightgown with her hair curled in preparation for the next day.

The nurse was there too. Talking up a storm. People loved talking to my Granny. I wasn’t mad she was there. I was mad she was hogging the whole set. Like ma’am, I’m the grandchild, not your co-star.

I said I'd come back the next day. But while I was at work, she passed.

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🌈 Legacy Sewn into Every Thread 🌈

She didn’t give long speeches. She wasn’t the loudest in the room. But she was the reason the room stayed standing.

From Marion's dusty roads to Third Ward buses, from Kashmere Gardens to Hiram Clarke cucumbers...

Irma Jean stitched together a life so rich, the thread can’t be broken.

And today, I don’t just remember her. I celebrate her.

With starch. With satin. With silence that shuts down foolishness and opens doors.

Happy Birthday, Granny. You were hilarious, holy, and handcrafted. We’re still running on your thread.

When YOUR Hospital Loses Funding, Things Don’t Get Better

Let’s be honest: a lot of people are celebrating Medicare and Medicaid cuts as if those programs are only for “other people.” But here’s the truth you might not want to hear—

When your hospital loses funding, things don’t get better.

Medicare and Medicaid aren’t just government programs. They’re part of the financial backbone that keeps hospitals open, ambulances running, and clinics staffed. They’re the reason some ERs even exist in rural towns and low-income neighborhoods. They pay for cancer screenings, physical therapy, home health visits, and checkups that catch serious illness before it becomes life-threatening. They support pediatric units, trauma centers, and hospice care.

Cut that funding, and we all feel it—whether we realize it or not.

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"But I don’t use Medicaid or Medicare..."

Okay. Maybe you don’t.

But here’s who might:

• Your child’s teacher, who uses Medicaid to afford her insulin

• The Uber driver who rushes you to the airport at 4 a.m.

• The barista making your latte who just had a baby and needed prenatal care

• The elderly veteran who lives on your block and shows up to every HOA meeting

• The school custodian who quietly makes sure your kid’s classroom is safe and clean

• The nurse at the hospital taking care of your loved one after a stroke

We are all connected. When they can’t access care, it doesn’t stay in their lane—it spills into yours.

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So what happens when that funding disappears?

Let’s break it down:

• Wait times increase. When clinics close, everyone goes to the ER. But the ER can’t turn people away—so you wait hours, even for broken bones or chest pain.

• Staff gets stretched thin. Nurses and doctors burn out and leave. The ones who stay get overworked. Care suffers. Mistakes happen.

• Specialty services disappear. No more mental health clinic. No more substance use counseling. No more dialysis center nearby.

• Local hospitals close. In rural areas, losing Medicaid dollars often means losing the only hospital within 50 miles. When someone has a heart attack, they now have to wait longer for help to arrive. Sometimes too long.

• Preventive care vanishes. Instead of catching high blood pressure or diabetes early, people end up in the ER with strokes and amputations.

And again—this doesn’t just affect “other people.” It affects you.

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People are so selfish, they’ll sabotage systems they use... just so others can’t.

It’s wild. Some folks would rather burn down the entire building just so someone else doesn’t get a room. That’s what’s happening when people applaud funding cuts to public services: they’re cheering while their own safety net unravels.

We’ve seen it happen before:

• Cuts to public schools didn’t just affect Black and Brown students. They affected everyone. Schools closed. Arts and music programs vanished. Counselors and librarians disappeared. Teachers started buying supplies out of pocket or walking away from the profession entirely.

• Cuts to transit services didn’t just hurt poor communities. They made commutes longer, roads more congested, and job access more difficult across entire cities.

When a system breaks, it doesn’t discriminate on the way down.

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When the safety net weakens, everyone falls faster.

So no—things don’t get better when Medicare and Medicaid are slashed. Not for you. Not for your family. Not for your neighbors. Not for the country.

This is more than policy. It’s about whether we want to live in a society that only protects the privileged few—or one that believes everyone deserves to live, thrive, and be cared for.

And if that bothers you? Maybe ask why.

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Not Having an Excellent Wednesday (and Other Salutation Crimes)

I absolutely HATE salutations. I hate them. I hate them. I hate them.

Nothing flips my emotional switch faster than someone opening a serious, heartfelt message I’ve spent time and emotional energy crafting… with “Good morning, Jeanicia. Hope you're having an excellent Wednesday 😊.”

An excellent Wednesday?

Sir. My message literally said: "Today is my mom’s birthday. She would’ve been 69. I’m grieving. I’m trying to make sense of things. I’m asking you to share a part of my origin story I’ve never been told."

And you’re over here acting like we’re exchanging pleasantries in a work email about Q3 projections.

“Hope you’re having an excellent Wednesday 😊”???

No, I am not. No genius, I’m not doing excellent today. I’m sad. I’m overwhelmed. I’m frustrated that I even have to ask for this. And now I’m mad, too—because instead of meeting me where I am emotionally, you’ve pulled out the Hallmark-template-autoresponder and dropped it into the top of your message like a dry crouton on an emotional soup.

And listen—I'm not unreasonable. I know some people were raised on formulaic communication and trained to start every written exchange like it’s a letter from the Queen. But can we not? Can we please read the room—or in this case, the message?

Salutations in emotionally charged conversations feel like someone handing you a mint when you’re talking about your mom’s funeral. It’s not offensive in isolation, but it completely misses the point. And the little smiley face? 🙃 That’s not cheer—that’s warfare.

It feels so dismissive. Like I poured out something vulnerable, raw, and deeply personal, and you breezed in with your auto-pilot “Good morning” like we’re strangers in line at Walgreens.

I don’t need your Wednesday wishes. I don’t need the weather report. I don’t even need you to be poetic. I just need you to see me. To engage with what I said. To respond to the content instead of skating past it like it's a flyer for a lost cat on a utility pole.

It’s not just him either. It’s anyone who replies to an emotional email or message with a robotic greeting and zero acknowledgment of tone or context. It feels like emotional small talk when what I asked for was connection.

And let me just say this: I’m already doing the work of reaching out to family, trying to gather pieces of memory, legacy, truth. That takes effort. It’s not easy. So when someone replies with a half-hearted “Hope all is well,” it makes me want to scream into a decorative throw pillow.

Sometimes I wish we could just start messages like:

— “Whew, this is heavy. Let me take a breath and reply.”

— “Thanks for trusting me with this.”

— “I hear you. Let me see what I can remember.”

Something. Anything. That shows you’re responding to the moment and not just copy-pasting from the back of a greeting card.

So no, I’m not having a good Wednesday. I’m grieving. I’m irritated. I’m tired of emotionally tone-deaf replies. And I swear, if one more person opens a serious conversation with “Hey hey!!” or “Hope this note finds you well 😊,” I’m gonna start mailing back edited versions of their messages—with big red arrows that say: “Try again. This ain’t it.”

Sincerely,

Not In The Mood for Small Talk

And definitely not having an excellent Wednesday. 🫐

A Birthday Tribute to My Mommy, Evelyn Jean Jacquot, with Life Lessons That Hit Like Lightning

On July 2, 1956, in Harris County, Texas, Evelyn Jean Jacquot arrived quietly but with unmistakable presence. Texas back then was booming—7.7 million people, lots of oil, even more heat, and a state-wide attitude that everything had to be bigger, bolder, and louder. Evelyn, born to 22-year-old Irma and 20-year-old Willard, was about to show Texas that sometimes the most powerful force is the calm in the middle of the storm.

Within the first six years, her family expanded like a full football team with the births of brothers Willard Jr., Michael, Ronald, and sister Laura. If you think four kids in six years sounds chaotic, imagine Evelyn trying to get a minute’s peace while siblings tested every limit. She quickly learned that being the quiet one meant she got to be the referee, the secret keeper, and the boss all at once. Lesson one: Sometimes the best way to win the game is to stay cool, watch carefully, and never get caught.

Tragedy struck when Evelyn was nine with the death of her baby brother Willard Jr. The family felt the loss deeply, but Evelyn learned early on that even the hardest storms eventually pass, and it’s how you hold your family together afterward that counts. More siblings followed, with Gerald joining the crew around 1968, and Evelyn’s role as the calm center only grew stronger. She mastered the art of the perfect side-eye, which in her family was basically a secret weapon. Lesson two: Sometimes, peace means knowing exactly when to speak—and when to shut up and let your look do the talking.

By age 21, Evelyn was managing a gas station and convenience store—a task far bigger than it sounds. She balanced cranky customers, inventory, staff schedules, and the kind of people who thought gas should be free. Her Texas-sized grit and impeccable attitude made sure everything ran like clockwork. Lesson three: Leadership isn’t about shouting the loudest; it’s about getting things done and making it look easy (even when it’s not).

At 23, she took on administrative and ministry roles at Mount Zion Baptist Church. She wasn’t just a member; she was the backbone who kept programs organized, events smooth, and spirits lifted. Faith was action for Evelyn—it meant showing up, doing the work, and loving without hesitation. Lesson four: Faith isn’t just prayer; it’s the quiet work you do when no one’s watching.

At 24, she gave birth to me, her “only baby in the whole wide world,” and added “mother” to her list of superpowers. She balanced motherhood, work, and family with a fierce love and just enough stubbornness to get through anything. Lesson five: Love fiercely, protect fiercely, and never let anyone forget who you are.

By the early ‘90s, Evelyn was behind the wheel—driving taxis and vans to get the elderly and disabled where they needed to go, rain or shine, with a patience only she could summon. Lesson six: Sometimes service means putting others first, even when you’d rather be home with your feet up.

Her family life saw its share of sorrow over the years, losing her mother, siblings, and father. But Evelyn’s spirit stayed unbreakable. She taught us that grief changes you but also reminds you what really matters: love, legacy, and living your truth. Lesson seven: Life will test you, but the true measure is how you keep loving through the pain.

On March 28, 2025, Evelyn passed from this world, but not before leaving behind a legacy of faith, strength, laughter, and more colorful clothes than you could shake a stick at. She lived loud, loved louder, and never missed a chance to tell you to pull your shoulders back and walk like you mean it. Lesson eight: Live your life in full color, on your own terms, and always with a side-eye ready to keep folks in check.

So today, on what would have been her 69th birthday, I invite you to celebrate Evelyn by putting on something bright, laughing a little louder, loving a little harder, and owning your path like the boss you are. Because that’s exactly what she would want.

Happy birthday, Mama. Your light still shines bright in all of us.

From Norbert, with love.

Some family ties announce themselves like a brass band at Mardi Gras—loud, joyful, unforgettable. Others? They slip away quietly, like a story nobody ever bothered to write down. That’s how it was with my great-great-grandfather, Norbert Jacquot. He was my mom’s great-grandfather. Lived to be 99 years old. He was alive when she was born. Alive until she was nearly 14. And yet… she only knew of him through stories others told her. Not really from memory.

She only knew what other people told her. Stories passed around like cornbread at Sunday dinner—soft around the edges and always a little different depending on who was talking.

But I’m not built for mystery. I don’t do well with “we’ll never know.” So I did what any nosy descendant with a Wi-Fi connection and a mild obsession would do—I opened an Ancestry account and went digging. And that’s how I met Norbert, one census typo at a time.

Born in 1871 in Charenton, Louisiana, Norbert entered the world just six years after the end of the Civil War, in a town so steeped in history you could probably hear it breathing. Charenton was hot, swampy, and swarming with sugarcane, mosquitoes, and mixed languages—Creole French, Chitimacha, and just enough English to confuse everyone. It smelled like smoke, syrup, and whatever somebody’s granny was cooking with a wooden spoon and no recipe. If humidity had a zip code, it would’ve been Charenton.

In the 1880 census, nine-year-old Norbert appears as Norbert Pierre, the fourth of seven kids in a busy house led by Jaco and Maria Pierre. No birth certificate, no baby pictures—just that census record and the mental image I now have of a barefoot boy swatting flies and ducking chores. He did go to school—enough to finish the fourth grade—which back then was plenty to survive and thrive in rural Louisiana. But I imagine he still walked through sugarcane fields to get there, dodging snakes and gossip on the way.

By 1900, Norbert was married to Laura with three little ones under five, working as a farm laborer on their home farm—and yes, the census proudly notes he owned his home. He was a master of the school of hard knocks, learning lessons from sunup to sundown in the sugarcane fields.

By 1910, he’d leveled up to farmer, with a full house of seven kids, plus a couple more people living with them who probably had roles somewhere between family, hired help, and “you get dinner.” The house was noisy and busy, like a full jambalaya pot—always bubbling, sometimes spicy, and never quite the same twice.

In 1920 and 1930, census records list him as a laborer on a general farm, still owning his home through all those decades of toil. This steady work wasn’t just a paycheck—it was the backbone of the family’s survival and strength, the rhythm behind those noisy, crowded houses filled with kids and stories. It’s that same work ethic my great-grandfather Wilson inherited — except he added a little Vaseline and style to the mix.

Among those kids was Wilson Jacquot—my great-grandfather. And him, I knew.

I got nine good years with that man. He was always fixing something—patching the house, tinkering with whatever creaked or squeaked. He kept a jar of Vaseline nearby like it was a sacred relic and used it liberally on my face until I shined. He called me “Bébé” in that sweet Creole French lilt, soft and warm like gumbo steam on a cold day.

He was calm. Gentle. Always present. A deacon at his church. The kind of man who didn’t need to talk much because his actions already told you who he was. He matched our outfits for every occasion—church, the post office, you name it—like it was the Met Gala. And when he hugged you, you felt it—in your heart and on your freshly greased face.

Wilson didn’t say “No. And no discussion.” That line? That belonged to his father, Norbert. It’s the only quote my mom ever heard about him. He said it so often, it became legend—“No. And no discussion.” A phrase passed down, not through blood, but by sheer volume and certainty. The kids in the neighborhood called him Papa, and they knew exactly what that meant: don’t ask twice.

But my mom? She didn’t inherit that line. She was the “let’s talk it through” one. The “maybe we can figure something out” one. And thank goodness for that, because had she been a “no-discussion” kind of parent, I might not be here writing this. I’d probably still be waiting for a response from 1996.

As I traced Norbert through decades of census records, I saw not just the evolution of his household, but the de-evolution of his name. One year he’s Jacquot. Then Jacco. Then Jacquote. Sometimes “Negro,” sometimes “mulatto,” once possibly “Jacks.” Whoever the census taker was, they clearly didn’t believe in consistency. But through all the misspellings and missing pieces, one thing was clear—Norbert was always at the center. Holding down the house. Raising children and grandchildren. Living through decades of change—wars, plagues, prohibition, Civil Rights, and bell bottoms. The man lived through everything except a good photo, apparently.

His wife Laura disappears from the records before him. When we finally found his headstone, it read: Beloved Father and Grandfather. That’s it. No “husband.” No “with eternal love.” Not even a “Gone Fishing.” Just simple. Stoic. Like the man himself.

Maybe they grew apart. Maybe she passed. Maybe the person in charge of the engraving just ran out of space. Another family mystery that’ll remain unsolved unless the headstone starts talking.

Even though my mom never really knew him, and I certainly didn’t, there’s something about Norbert that lingers. Maybe it’s in Wilson’s steady hands. Maybe it’s in the way our family keeps moving forward—quietly, humbly, with grease on our faces and tools in our hands. Maybe it’s in how we keep saying yes, even when life throws us all the reasons to say no.

And while Norbert didn’t leave us stories or recipes or journals with gold-trimmed wisdom, he left us something else: roots. Thick, tangled, beautiful roots buried deep in Charenton soil—the kind you can’t always see, but you feel them every time you stand strong. Every time you fix something instead of throwing it away. Every time you quietly let go of what no longer serves you and make space to grow.

That’s the legacy. No fanfare. No discussion.

Just life, passed on.

And a whole lot of Vaseline.