For as long as I can remember, my great-grandmother never let a night go by without turning on the electric candlesticks perfectly placed in each window of our home. MumMum, as she was affectionately called, was about 5 feet and 4 inches tall with the most beautiful blemish-free, deep honey-brown skin and a laugh that enveloped her entire body. The joy in her voice when she was with family, or at church, or visiting neighbors would fill the lonely space in the air. MumMum lived life with her arms, hands, and heart wide open.
My mother and I moved into my great-grandmother’s home when I was in the 4th grade. This would be our home until MumMum passed away the day after my twenty-eighth birthday. We lived in a three-bedroom, one-bathroom row home in North Philly, the same three-bedroom and one-bathroom home where my great-grandparents raised their seven daughters, and before her death, MumMum nurtured seventeen grandchildren, eighteen great-grandchildren, and one great-great-grandchild.
Our three-story, 1200 sq. feet row home was encased in white vinyl siding, with a red and white awning, a green turf-covered porch, and a large four-part bow window where MumMum had placed the four electric candle sticks that were required to be lit as soon as the sun set. The porch was my favorite part of the house; it’s where I would sit and people-watch while cracking sunflower seeds or slurping watermelon or water ice. The porch is where my cousins and I shared our deepest secrets, constructed our best lies, and envisioned our grandest fantasies of what life would be like when we grew up.
I was MumMum’s eldest great-grandchild and, according to my family, the child with the most tumultuous adolescent years: multiple school suspensions, five school expulsions, countless times of running away, sneaking folks in and out of the house, and whatever else my rebellious teenage brain deemed necessary at the time. With every exit, MumMum had always invited me back home—no questions asked.
I remember, in my teenage years, asking my mother why we were the only house on our block that had a shit ton of candles in the window. “Back in the day,” my mother explained, “candles lit in the window would signal to runaway slaves that that house was safe and probably part of the underground railroad.”
While my mother’s explanation made sense historically to my young mind, it still didn’t make sense why we had candles in our window in the early 2000s. Wasn’t slavery over? Didn’t people walking or driving by think we forgot to take down the Christmas decorations? Were we the weird candle house on the block?
It would take some years after MumMum’s death for me to realize that maybe she knew something that we all didn’t: Black folks were still in desperate need of safe homes and a no-questions-asked type of hospitality.
I left for college in 2007, and besides the once or twice a year holiday visits, I remained gone until 2016, when MumMum passed away. MumMum and I occasionally checked in over the phone, and she would always only ask three questions: “How ya doing?” “When ya coming home?” and “Whatchu wanna eat?” Without fail, on every visit home, I was greeted with her famous fried chicken, baked turkey wings, and fish and grits for breakfast–these were my favorite meals of hers, ones that I’ve yet to adequately replicate.
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“What time are these people coming over?” My roommate said to me as we prepared to host a house party in our new spot. Jay and I had only met the year before, but here we were, already living together, hoping to build a home we both longed for. Jay is a Black queer man and a platonic soulmate, who I’m sure I’ve known and loved in each of my past lives.
“Uh, I told them around 6, but you know niggas ain’t gon’ be here until at least 7:30,” I yelled back from the kitchen as I squeezed the last remaining bit of Italian dressing into the shrimp pasta salad I’d prepped the night before. Rotini pasta, shrimp, veggies, Italian dressing, and some [secret] seasonings–a recipe I inherited from my mother’s sister and one of my classic party dishes.
“Except Colorado niggas show up at the exact time on the invitation!” Jay replied. We both laughed. Neither Jay nor I are from Colorado, but for the past few years, we have come to make this place our home. When we decided to move in together, one of the things that really sealed the deal was how much we both loved hosting parties. It’s still one of my favorite parts of our relationship, and y’all know you can’t host and cook with everybody!
As my intentionally curated Nina Simone playlist blared through the speakers and the words Birds flying high, you know how I feel bounced off the walls, Jay turned on the porch light, lit the candles and incense on the table, and unlocked the door; we were ready for our first party. While a Nina Simone playlist may not be acceptable party music, a Nina Simone and a late 90s/early 2000s Gospel playlist are the only acceptable playlists for cooking, cleaning, and party preparation–according to the NAACP, of course.
I know there’s a social rule, probably in the Bible or somewhere, that says that you shouldn’t mix friend groups, but I’ve never had that problem. All around our home were mostly queer and trans folks: school friends, exes, current situationships, friends of friends, besties, folks I met two days ago while outside smoking a Black & Mild, neighbors, friends who are family, and other random folks, who in their world would hardly be friends but had all come to gather in my home joyously.
The air was thick with the aroma of fried chicken and weed because no moment passed without someone sparking up. My role as a host often consisted of passing blunts and pouring shots, all while asking my guests, “How ya doing? You want something to eat?” and this time was no different. As the night went on, my legs grew tired and achy from twirling around each section of my house to check in with my folks, crack jokes, and ensure the trash wasn’t overflowing–I host, you chill, has always been my motto. You’d hardly find me sitting and eating unless I’ve demanded a spades game after taking one too many shots of tequila. But you might catch me doing a lil two-step by the grill, except that one time I instigated a Harlem shake competition and damn near threw my shoulder out.
***
I’ve always enjoyed hosting parties, but something switched in me when I came out as queer and trans. It’s as if hosting evolved from a thing that I did, into an extension of my personhood. It would be four years of intentional self-discovery: first as bisexual, then as queer, and later as trans-masculine who used they/them pronouns. Four years of exploration, trying on different labels, testing what fit, what felt true. Four years of coming home into the person I am today: a queer, non-binary, trans-masculine individual navigating the space where Black womanhood and Black manhood intersect. Four years until I could accept and welcome all the parts of who I am.
It’s remarkable how coming home to myself and my truth unearthed a disposition of hospitality in me. Being able to finally look in the mirror and say, “Welcome home, Lex,” made space for me to open my house and my heart to the outcast, the vulnerable, the forgotten, the Black/queer/trans folks who are searching for home.
Making a home in my queerness and opening my home to my folks reminds me that MumMum gave me the greatest gift in her passing—the generational blessing of hospitality. The warmth of her spirit that never knew a stranger, the open invitation to come home, eat, laugh, and be together, the nurturing presence one felt when in her company, and her welcoming smile all live on in me.
I wasn’t out while MumMum was alive, and thus, I never got to share my truth with her. But what I know about my great-grandmother is that nothing about her love, acceptance, or pleasure in who I am would have changed. She saw me and loved me deeply, and no matter what, she welcomed me with open arms.
Like the lights in the window of my great-grandmother’s home, may all I encounter know they are welcome here. Come home, whatchu’ wanna eat?
*Edited by Non-Fiction Editor, Jina DuVernay
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