A Lesson From Mama's Casserole

My fondest memories of my days at Cathedral School are in the Boys’ Choir during my 6th through 8th grade years. Being one of the only Black students in the school (including my younger brother) made me feel like an outsider, in both pedigree and skin color. So music and singing allowed me to connect with the school by bringing a gift that I had inherited from my great-uncle and dad, both professional jazz musicians. I was immediately drawn to learning treble and bass clefs, wearing the robes and ruff I had seen in the hallowed walls of choirs past. My fascination of this new world seemed like a sanctuary from the world I lived across the bridge in one of East Oakland’s poorest neighborhoods. And as my single mother strove to raise two young boys and give them a better life, I was slowly adapting to a culture that I had not yet understood nor even visualized for myself at that time. I was simply surviving.

Thursday night choir rehearsals were amazing. We would spend hours working on songs for mass or for the annual Christmas concerts and, once in a blue moon, a somber funeral where we would sing songs like “A Spotless Rose”. We would always be fed by the rotation of mothers who made these events even more like a musical slumber party. So when the time came for my mom to make the choir dinner, I had mixed emotions. I remember one of the feelings being shock and the other being awe followed by a looming fear that we would be discovered to be the “poor black family from Oakland.” My mom was a teacher, union worker and supportive parent but to me at 12 years old she was the crux of my future embarrassment. I remember her looking at the dinner schedule for the choir and saying “Oh! It’s my turn. I’m going to make a tuna casserole!” Tuna Casserole?! The melange of noodles, peas and carrots and 99 cent Chicken of the Sea. My face grew hot and I could not believe my life was going to end in a burning ember of choral ruffs.

The night of the dinner, my mom came early and I could see those aluminum covered casseroles sitting on the table. My heart was racing and I knew if there was a God that He would knock those trays over forcing us to order ten extra large pepperoni pizzas. The kids all got in line and piled their plates with the flaky dish, the steam rising off of the white, saucy mixture. I closed my eyes and prayed. All of a sudden, through the tinkling of plates and silverware, I heard an ecstatic “MMMmmm! Good casserole Mrs. H!” followed by more hearty praises and nods of unanimous approval. Suddenly, I felt a wave of new feelings; surprise, pride and a hint of embarrassment for doubting my mom’s talent and grace. That night I learned a valuable lesson. Never judge a casserole by it’s content but by the effort of a mother’s hard work and love for the meal.