The Backbone Got a Name: Mama, Grandmama, and ‘Nem"

The Backbone Got a Name: Mama, Grandmama, and ‘Nem"

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Let me tell y’all something if you ever want to know where the true power of the world is stored, it ain’t in no bank vault, no White House, no courtroom or boardroom. It’s in a cast iron skillet on a stove in a kitchen run by a woman who will feed you, bless you, whoop you, and pray for you all in one holy sweep of her apron. And you better believe she’ll do it while humming a hymn and side-eyeing you for drinking the last of her sweet tea.

That woman? She’s either your Mama, your Grandmama, or one of them fine-fingered Aunties who know your secrets before you even do. The real architects of the family. The backbone of the community. The ones who can fry chicken, read your soul, and file your taxes without blinking. And let me be clear: they don’t just keep the family together.

Aunt Rita & Kateb

They are the family. My Grandmama, Celestine Lord rest her soul and her gumbo once whispered in my ear, “Prayer still works.” And baby, when she said it, it wasn’t no casual suggestion. It was a prophetic declaration. She leaned in close like she was handing me a generational weapon forged in spiritual fire and seasoned with patience, sass, and tabasco. I was about seven years old, sticky from a praline, with a runny nose and one sock on. And she leaned in real smooth and said, “Child, prayer still works… now go get me my snuff tin and that peppermint from the top shelf.”

You see, these women? They don’t just love you, they build you. They are the original community organizers. They will organize a family reunion, a funeral, a baby shower, and a church bake sale without breaking a sweat or a nail. And if you even think about showing up late with no potato salad, they will stare at you so hard your ancestors will flinch.

Marva & Kateb

Now, coming up in our family, you weren’t raised by a woman. You were raised by a chorus of women

Mama, Grandmama, Aunt Tootsie, Auntie Pat, Big Sis who acted like your second mama even though she was only four years older. You didn’t just get one opinion, no sir. You got the whole symphony. One would pray for you, one would fuss at you, one would tell your business on the front porch while shelling peas, and another would quietly slip you a few dollars with a wink and a “Don’t tell your mama.”

That’s how I learned it takes a village. And our village wore house dresses and headscarves and smelled like cocoa butter and miracle oil. And baby, they had rules. You better not be playing in the street when the streetlights came on. You better say “yes ma’am” and “no sir,” or risk getting corrected by every grown-up on the block like you just failed a test in manners school.

And if you were real lucky, you had a Grandmama like mine who doubled as a spiritual consultant and a bootleg herbalist. My Grandmama believed in the healing power of prayer, castor oil, and Vicks Vaporub applied directly to the chest, feet, soul, and spirit. You had a stomachache? She’d lay hands on you, speak in tongues, and make you drink something that smelled like burnt rubber and old blessings. And somehow it worked..

And don't even get me started on the dreams. Grandmama would dream about you falling off a porch and call you the next day with full concern and rebuke. “I don’t know what you got going on, but I had a dream you was hanging with some folks who ain't got no home training. Stay prayed up.” And you’d just be sitting there thinking, “How did she know I was with Tony and them last night?”

That’s because these women are tuned in. Spiritually, emotionally, and nosily. It’s a gift. God gave them a direct line to the universe and the local gossip, and they treat both with the same seriousness.

Now, growing up in New Orleans—or as my Aunties called it, “the Crescent City of Baptisms and Beignets” I saw firsthand how the mothers and grandmothers held up the corners of the culture like four mighty pillars. Whether it was Ms. Ethel who sold shrimp po’boys and scriptures out of her window, or Auntie Myrtle who swore she could see spirits on Mardi Gras day, every woman had her role. They were hood historians, griots in wigs, divine connectors of generations.

One time, during a storm that knocked out the power, Grandmama lit candles, opened her Bible, and started telling a story so spooky yet spiritual it still sits in my bones. She said, “Baby, you ever heard of the ghost of Marie Laveau’s midwife? They say she walks the streets whisperin’ to babies in their mama’s bellies, tellin’ them, ‘You gon’ be alright, chile. Your mama strong. Your Auntie strong. And you got a praying Grandmama, so you ahead of the game.’” And I ain’t slept comfortably since, but I’ve been spiritually fortified ever since.

And I’ll never forget, Grandmama Celestine once told me something that rearranged my entire theology:

“God must be a woman yeah, like a Grandmother. She takes care of all creation, nurtures it, loves it unconditionally no matter how annoying humanity is and how disobedient we act.”

I laughed so hard I almost dropped my plate of red beans, but deep down I knew she was onto something. I mean really only a Grandmama would still feed you after you broke her good lamp, rolled her eyes at your mess, and came home smelling like poor choices.

Let’s be real.

These women are intercessors in house slippers. They are generals in the army of the Lord, with a purse full of candy and a stern look that could turn the devil into a choir boy. They don’t raise children. They shape legacies. They are midwives to your miracles. And even when you drift away, they are on their knees calling you back. You might not see them, but trust they see you. In your foolishness, in your greatness, in your silence.

And you ever notice how Grandmamas never say goodbye on the phone? It’s always “Alright now,” which is Grandmama-code for “I love you, I’m watching you, and don’t you dare mess up what I prayed for.” That’s the thing you are living in the answered prayers of women who cooked and cried and cast out demons while stirring red beans.

So, when we talk about family, we must remember it ain’t just the folks you share blood with. It’s the women who shared their wisdom, their food, their patience, and their laundry room. It’s the women who gave you that look in church that said, “Sit yo’ tail down” and the next look that said, “You did good, baby.” It’s the women who turned nothing into everything and did it with style, hot comb burns, and holy conviction.

If you’ve got a Mama, Grandmama, Auntie, or even an honorary church lady who ever took the time to pour into you, you’ve been touched by divinity. That’s a spiritual inheritance you better not waste. Call them. Visit them. Write them. And if they’ve passed on, live in a way that makes their prayers worth the breath it took to speak them.

Because if Grandmama said prayer still works, then baby…you better act like it.