Before I knew love, I knew your face

Jacqueline S. Hill. Some people know her as Jackie. I know her as Mama.

She was the first place I experienced love. Not the kind that only shows up when life is easy or beautiful enough to be remembered. The kind that makes sure you have what you need, when you're too young to understand what lies ahead.

She gave me more than shelter and solid morals. She placed me inside my history before I knew what it meant to me. She taught me that being Black wasn't a burden to shrink under, but a truth to stand in.

Even at a young age she always gave me a front row seat to my identity. She took me to community meetings. She took me march on Washington D.C. at the Million Family March. She brought me on the Civil Rights Freedom Tour. Hell, sometimes it felt like I was living in the 60's.

She also took me to work.

At SHAPE Community Center (in Houston's Third Ward), she was behind the scenes but known by many, if not all. She assisted the executive director, coordinated events, organized fundraisers, and wrote grants. But those were just titles and only part of her story.

She was a designer. She created flyers, programs, and other materials for community leaders. Things that told people where to be, what was happening, and why it mattered.

Some of the people and organizations she assisted throughout Houston included, Project Row Houses, the Third Ward Multi-Service Center, Emancipation Park, and the City of Houston and its constituents.

She helped with the Pan African Festival at Miller Outdoor Theatre, SHAPE's annual Kwanzaa celebrations, and the Civil Rights Freedom Tour.

But it wasn't always about the big names or events. She believed in giving people opportunities, even in small ways.

She supported local Black businesses, sometimes charging less for her work or doing it for free. When community events needed help, she hired young people so they could earn a little money. Three or four hours working a front desk could put $50 to $100 in somebody's pocket.

She was also part of the group that fought to keep Ryan Middle School open. Ryan was a historic neighborhood school in Third Ward, and people in the community saw its possible closure as another example of Black schools and neighborhoods being left behind.

Whether you were standing on a corner panhandling or sitting in the mayor's office, she met you with the same compassion. Your title didn't decide whether you deserved to be treated like a person.

For her, showing up for people wasn't something you did when it was convenient.

I didn't know it then, but I was learning how to see and how I wanted to be in the world by watching the way she moved.

I remember being around nine years old when we watched live coverage of the night Gary Graham was executed.

I was young. I didn't understand the case, the disputed evidence, or everything the adults in the room knew.

But I understood the silence.

I remember the countdown on the tv screen and the heaviness in that room when it ended. I remember the fear in my mother's embrace. The fear that one day that may be my fate. That I could be put to death for being in the wrong place, at the wrong time.