The Quiet Strength That Raised Me

The Quiet Strength That Raised Me

What the Porch Taught Me That the World Still Ain’t Figured Out

By Kāteb Shunnar

Author’s Opening Note

I’m gonna tell you straight, this one right here didn’t come easy.

It came out in pieces. In pauses. In them quiet moments where I had to stop typing and just sit there, staring off like I was waiting on the walls to say something back. Because writing like this ain’t just writing. It’s remembering. And remembering… that ain’t always soft.

Sometimes it pull you back into moments you thought you already made peace with. Sometimes it tap you on the shoulder and say, nah, you not done with this yet. Sit with it a little longer.

And I did.

I had to walk away from this more than once. Not because I didn’t know what to say. Nah, I knew exactly what needed to be said. That was the problem. It wasn’t light. It had weight on it. The kind of weight you feel in your chest before you ever put it into words.

You ever try to explain something that shaped you, but every sentence feel too small for it. Like you reaching for the right way to say it, and it keep slipping just out your grip. Yeah. That kind of feeling.

But then, right in the middle of all that heaviness, something would make me laugh. Not loud. Not over the top. Just one of them quiet laughs where you shake your head at yourself like… yeah, that sound about right.

Because where I come from, pain and humor don’t take turns. They show up together. One sitting in the front room, the other leaning in the kitchen doorway, both waiting on you to come deal with them.

So don’t be surprised if this make you feel a little of everything. A little warmth. A little ache. Maybe even make you pause and think about your own people, your own upbringing.

That’s how it’s supposed to feel.

This ain’t polished storytelling. This is lived memory. This is what happens when the voices that raised you don’t leave, they just settle deeper into who you are.

My grandmother. My mother.

They didn’t do all that long talking. Didn’t need to. One sentence from them could follow you for years, correcting you at the right time whether you liked it or not.

I’m just the one putting it into words now.

So take your time with this. Don’t rush through it like you got somewhere else to be. Let it sit with you.

Because somewhere in here… you gonna recognize something.

───

You ever notice how some lessons don’t land when they first said?

Like you hear them, you nod, maybe even repeat them back like you understand… but truth is, you don’t. Not yet.

Then life come back around, hit you with something real, and suddenly that same lesson show up like, oh now you ready.

Yeah. That’s how it was for me.

My grandmother had a way of speaking that felt simple, almost too simple. But it wasn’t. It was layered. You just didn’t have enough life in you yet to catch all of it.

She told me one time, calm as anything, that life will hand you more than enough reasons to fall apart.

Not might.

Not every now and then.

More than enough.

And I remember thinking… why you gotta say it like that. Why it sound so final.

But she wasn’t trying to scare me.

She was trying to steady me.

Because right after that, she said something that sat deeper than I realized at the time.

She said you got to show life you got even more reasons to keep going.

Now when you young, you hear that and think it mean stay positive. Smile. Keep your head up.

But nah. That ain’t what she meant.

What she meant was, when life start pressing on you, when it start testing your patience, your strength, your sense of self… you got to decide who you gonna be in that moment.

Not who you feel like being.

Who you choose to be.

And that choice… it don’t always feel good.

Some days you don’t feel strong.

Some days your patience run out before the day even get going.

Some days you just tired.

Not the kind of tired sleep fix either.

I’m talking about that deep, quiet tired. The kind where even thinking feel like effort.

And in those moments, ain’t nobody cheering you on. Ain’t no background music making it feel inspiring.

It’s just you.

And that choice.

And that’s when those old voices come back.

Soft. Familiar.

You still here.

So now what.

Now let me tell you how I was raised.

We didn’t have much money. Ain’t no need to dress that up and make it sound prettier than it was. We stretched what we had. Made things work longer than they probably should have. Got creative without calling it that.

But we weren’t lacking where it mattered.

We had clean clothes.

And I mean clean. Pressed. Taken care of. You wasn’t about to step out looking like nobody paid attention to you. Because somebody did.

Didn’t matter where them clothes came from. What mattered was how you carried yourself in them.

Food?

Man… somehow, some way, there was always something to eat.

Might not have been fancy. Might not have been what other folks had. But it filled you up. And it carried something extra in it too. Something you felt more than tasted.

And manners.

Listen… you was not about to embarrass that household.

You speak when you come in.

You acknowledge people.

You don’t sit there acting like you don’t hear somebody talking to you.

That wasn’t about being strict for no reason.

That was about foundation.

That was about making sure wherever you went, you didn’t lose yourself.

That right there… that was wealth.

Not the loud kind.

The kind that stays with you.

Because I done seen people with money still searching for peace.

And I done seen people with very little carry themselves like they got everything they need.

That difference?

That’s what raised me.

Now let’s talk about discipline.

And I’m not about to sugarcoat it.

Discipline is boring.

It is.

It’s doing the same thing over and over again when nobody watching.

It’s showing up when you don’t feel like it.

It’s handling what needs to be handled when your mood say do anything else.

And yeah, sometimes you sitting there wondering if it’s even doing anything.

Because it don’t feel like progress.

It don’t look like progress.

But it is.

It’s just quiet about it.

Like them old porches that creak when you step on them but still hold everybody who sit down.

That’s what discipline build in you.

Something steady.

Something that don’t fold easy.

I remember sitting outside one evening, heat still sitting heavy in the air even though the sun was already gone. Somebody down the block had music playing low, something with a trumpet that sounded like it been through some things.

And I just sat there thinking…

Ain’t nobody sit me down and teach me all this straight out.

It came through watching.

Through being corrected.

Through seeing how things were handled when life got real.

That’s a different kind of learning.

I met this elder once, not from around here, but he had that same grounded presence. He told me something simple that stayed with me.

He said everybody carrying something.

And at first it sound basic.

But sit with it.

Everybody.

Not just the people who look like they struggling.

Everybody.

And that changed how I looked at folks.

Because it’s easy to judge from the outside.

But you don’t see what people dealing with when they by themselves.

You don’t see the weight they pushing through just to show up.

So maybe… ease up a little.

Now there’s this story I used to hear growing up, one of them quiet kind that don’t get announced, just passed along like a plate at the table.

It was about this man named Eli. Stayed near the water, where the river move slow and the air feel like it holding onto everything said and unsaid.

Folks said he had a gift. Not the flashy kind. His gift was listening.

Really listening.

One day a young man came to him, frustrated, talking about how life wasn’t fair, like everything was stacked against him.

Eli didn’t interrupt.

Didn’t correct him.

Just let him talk.

Then he handed him a lantern and told him to walk down the path by the water and come back without letting the flame go out.

That young man walked slow. Careful. Focused on that light like it was everything.

When he came back, Eli asked him what he saw.

He said nothing. I was too busy protecting the flame.

Eli nodded and said exactly.

Sometimes you overwhelmed because you paying attention to everything except what you supposed to protect.

That light? That’s you.

And if you don’t tend to it, life will have you drained over things that was never yours to carry.

That stayed with me.

Because I realized how much time I spent looking around instead of looking within.

Comparing.

Doubting.

Second guessing.

And doubt… it don’t shout.

It whisper.

Tell you to wait.

Tell you you not ready.

Tell you play it safe.

And if you listen too long, you start shrinking.

But the moment you push back, even just a little, things start to shift.

You start seeing yourself different.

Not perfect.

But capable.

And that’s enough.

Now let me say this about New Orleans.

This city don’t pretend life easy.

It just don’t let it take everything.

You can hear music coming from somewhere at any time, like the city reminding itself to keep breathing.

You can see folks laughing, dancing, carrying on even when things ain’t lined up right.

That ain’t ignoring reality.

That’s resilience.

That’s saying yeah, it’s hard… but I’m still here.

And sometimes, you gotta laugh at yourself too.

Because life will humble you quick.

I done had days where nothing went how I planned.

And I had to sit there like… well alright then.

And laugh.

Because what else you gone do.

That laughter?

That’s survival too.

And through all of this, everything I was taught, everything that shaped me, I came to understand something simple.

I am made of what raised me.

The discipline.

The care.

The correction.

The laughter.

The quiet strength that don’t need to announce itself.

It’s all in me.

And if you pay attention…

It’s in you too.

Author’s Closing Words

If this spoke to you, if it sat with you in any kind of way, don’t keep it to yourself. Share it. Pass it along. Let it reach somebody who might need it.

And if you believe in this work, in these reflections, in these stories, I ask you to support the writing and the blog however you can. I truly need your support to keep this going.

I appreciate you. For real.

Thank you for listening.

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