by Miko Branch
Experience and education are the best teachers, even if the education is not formal.
On some level, his teachings must have sunk in. The hard-work habit has stuck, along with a fierce determination to be beholden to no one.
MISS JESSIE’S HOUSE
Miss Jessie is one of the reasons we rarely gave our mother a hard time about being away so often on her Buddhist retreats. Our grandmother cooked, kept a clean house, and made it known on every level that family was her top priority. We learned everything we could from this gracious lady as we sat around her kitchen table. She was our foundation. All the down-home, do-right values that our father passed along to us originated from this wise and vibrant life force.
Born Jessie Mae Pittman in 1919 to a sharecropper family in Edgecombe County, North Carolina, she hated the outdoors. Proud, beautiful, and not a little bit vain, she didn’t like the way the sun beat down on her creamy coffee-colored skin, much less breaking out in a sweat while working. She tried every trick she could think of to avoid picking cotton in the hot fields during harvest time. She quickly figured out that feigning illness was going to work only some of the time, so with a large family to feed—five sisters and one brother—Jessie Mae took over the kitchen. She was such an excellent cook, no one would dream of taking her out of the kitchen. She never had to pick cotton again.
She faced plenty of hardship growing up in the South during those years. Early on in Miss Jessie’s childhood, her father, Rossi Pittman, remarried and relocated to Detroit. Her mother, Gertrude Pittman, married a man by the name of Alfred “Pap” Pierce, and the couple had four more children: Lillian (Sis), Ruth (Selma), Shirley, and Horace (Boy). Our grandmother used to tell us stories at her kitchen about how Pap gave preferential treatment to the three daughters he had with Gertrude, often at the expense of Miss Jessie and her whole sister, Bertha. And yet Sis, the eldest of the three half sisters, was crazy about Miss Jessie and would follow her around the house like a lost kitten. When they were older and Aunt Bertha had children of her own, Pap used to make her cook scraps on the little stove off to the side. She was forced to live on leftovers and never allowed to sit at the table and share a meal with the rest of the family.
Miss Jessie was allowed to partake in family meals only because she had become such a great cook, and it was her food Pap wanted to eat. Not liking how her sister was being treated, our grandmother made a point of saying at the top of her voice, “Now, Bert, you better stop all that crying! It don’t make no sense to stick around here if you’re going to be treated any ole kinda way. You need take your kids to get up out of here!”
GIRL WITH A GIFT
Miss Jessie herself was in no hurry to leave because she had a good job cooking for a well-to-do white family. The lady of the house taught her a thing or two about great food, and to some extent, Miss Jessie’s skills were allowing her to, as she put it, “live the life of Riley.” No one wanted to ruffle her feathers for fear she might boycott the kitchen. This was her gift, and it carried her through some tough times.
Our grandmother was such an artist when it came to cooking and making a home that, had she grown up in this century, she would have had her own catering company or restaurant. A visionary with a true entrepreneurial spirit, she figured out her talents and passions early on and honed her skills to perfection. It earned her an authority and respect at a young age.
Although she managed to complete a public school education, there weren’t many options for a sharecropper’s daughter coming up in the Depression, particularly a woman of color, so she did what most beautiful and talented girls did in those days: She got married. In 1936, at the age of seventeen, she wed Charlie Ann Branch—a military man—and had two children with him: Hilda and Jimmy, our father. When their marriage ended, our grandmother decided to take her kids to Poughkeepsie, New York, where a few of her cousins had already migrated. Charlie died soon thereafter.
Any skills you develop are yours to keep. They go with you everywhere, and no one can take them away.
But Miss Jessie was never alone for long. Defying the convention of the times, she moved in with George Dancey (Sweet), who fathered her two sons, Ricardo and Irvin. It was known that Sweet was a ladies’ man, so that relationship didn’t last, either. Miss Jessie set about raising her kids on her own.
Throughout, Miss Jessie was adamant about putting her children first. She did not care for how her mother, Gertrude, had allowed a new man to treat her and her sister, Bert. She stayed angry with our great-grandmother for years, and regarded her as weak for putting a man before her own kids. She made a promise to herself that if she had a family of her own, they would never have to wonder whether they were wanted or loved. She also made it clear that all of her children were whole brothers and sisters in spirit, whether they shared the same father or not. Miss Jessie despised anyone who put others before family. “Blood is thicker than water,” she used to tell us, and she lived by that creed for the rest of her life.
Miss Jessie’s nurturing skills were well known in the neighborhood. She was called the “cookinist” woman in Poughkeepsie. She stretched out a military widow’s pension to feed and clothe everyone in her household. “How did she do it?” we once asked our father. “Sacrifice. Momma knew how to do without,” he told us. “She always denied herself to make sure our bellies were full, our clothes were clean, and we had a warm, cozy house to come home to.”
Miss Jessie’s children were especially proud of the fact that their mother was such a famous beauty on the streets of Poughkeepsie. Aunt Hilda still remembers walking down Main Street one Mother’s Day with Miss Jessie. “She literally stopped traffic, she had such a beautiful Coca Cola–shaped body,” recalls Aunt Hilda.
NATURAL BEAUTY
Next to Mommy, our grandmother was my other ideal of feminine beauty. She had her own style that was as much about confidence and character as her considerable physical charms. Full-framed and shapely, Miss Jessie needed hardly any makeup, but a little eyebrow pencil and lipstick instantly turned her into a movie star with those big eyes, red-lacquered lips, and wide-brimmed black hats worn tilted to the side. She was a walking fashion mannequin, and her sartorial flourish was a quality our fly father has emulated to this day, with his collection of fedora hats, tailored suits, and painstakingly polished shoes. Daddy wanted to reflect some of Miss Jessie’s star quality. No matter what was going on in her life, she always maintained her appearance, and so has he. It instilled in all of us a deep sense of pride and self-respect.
Miss Jessie also had a reputation for being incredibly tough. No one dared mess with her. She was very much in charge and a fierce protector of her children. One of the first stories Titi and I remember hearing about Miss Jessie involved our father when he was just a young boy. He came running up the stairs of their house on Bellevue Avenue, hollering, “Momma, that man who lives at the top of the hill just slapped me!”
Be your own best representative of your brand. Pay attention to how you dress and carry yourself. The manner in which you present yourself speaks volumes about your self-worth and can have a direct impact on your business relationships.
“Oh Lord! Why did he go and do that?” Aunt Sis, my grandmother’s sister, hollered from the other room.
“I know damn well he didn’t put his damn hands on my child!” Miss Jessie said. She couldn’t get out of her housedress and into her street clothes fast enough. The man must have known Miss Jessie was coming his way, because he could hear her mouth from all the way down the street. But he was cool as a cucumber, as he leaned forward with his elbows resting on the banister of his second-floor porch, while Miss Jessie and Aunt Sis made their way up that long flight of stairs. As soon as she got up to him, she punched him all over his face and head, tearing him up while Aunt Sis held him down. She even twisted his cheek hard enough to draw blood. Aunt Sis was tall, big, and strong and could hang with the best of the men when it came to blows. She and our grandmother both knew how to fight.
Aunt Sis pitched in and started helping Miss Jessie with the beating. When our grandmother got tired of punching, slapping, and pushing the man, she told Aunt Sis, “Now throw his ass down the stairs!”
Once the man hit the bottom, they ran down and jumped on him again, kicking him everywhere and showing him no mercy as he yelled for help. When they were finished, they stepped over him and walked away, leaving the man in a fetal position on the ground.
“He better not never put his damn hands on not one of my kids—and I mean it!” Miss Jessie shouted, loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.
Do not mistreat others. Show them through your gracious actions how you expect to be treated.
My father used to love telling that story. It was a reminder to all of us that you have to be fearless. My grandmother and her sister were two defenseless women raising children on their own, but their self-belief and desire to protect their own made them strong. The lesson stayed with Titi and me throughout our lives, especially as our business grew and we had something valuable to protect.
BRINGING THE BACKBONE
Miss Jessie’s no-nonsense approach to discipline was well known. She kept her children squeaky clean and well fed but was known to “tear ya behind up” if she had to. She insisted on two things for her children: good manners and good grooming. Miss Jessie was, above all, a lady. But she also instilled a sense of backbone and taught her babies to stand up for themselves, how “not to take no stuff.”
The rules of behavior notwithstanding, we felt a freedom at her place and loved running outside in the fresh air. Miss Jessie loved us equally and kept a watchful eye on all of her grandchildren while we played outside in the Charles Street houses. One day she was watching out the window from her favorite easy chair—the one where she watched The Price Is Right and her “stories” —As the World Turns, Another World, and The Young and the Restless. Suddenly, she saw me rolling down a small hill fighting a boy named Stink. I was trying to defend our little cousin Chico—we cousins were close, and we protected one another no matter what. Seeing what was going down, Miss Jessie called Titi from the kitchen, where she was hot-combing her hair and said: “You better get out there right now and make sure Peanut [Stink’s older sister] don’t jump your sister, and I mean it!”
TO THE RESCUE
When Titi and I were thirteen and twelve, Miss Jessie came downstate to stay with us in Queens. I knew how much she hated to leave her home under any circumstances; we must have been in dire need of her help.
By then, our mother had moved to the premises of her Buddhist organization until our father moved out of the apartment. This lasted for a short while as our parents, who were separating, figured out the logistics of the family’s living situation. As a result of all this back-and-forth, our dad found himself raising two girls alone, struggling to make ends meet. He needed our grandmother to cook, wash clothes, clean, and mind both of us. She lived with us for around three weeks, and we were in heaven! She showed us the love at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She stocked the refrigerator with our favorite treats. Even better, she was a maternal fixture in the household: someone to come home to.
KITCHEN TABLE WISDOM
Except for that one blissful period when we had her all to ourselves, Miss Jessie was the larger-than-life woman who took us in over the holidays—Easter, Christmas, and Thanksgiving—any occasion that brought us together as an extended family. We felt enveloped in her love the minute we walked in the door. When we were little, it was our grandmother who made sure our hair was done right—washing, conditioning, braiding, or blow-drying it straight. She sent us to Kim, the daughter of her friend Miss Carrie Mae, to get our hair corn-braided; later, she would send us to Miss Vivienne to get cholesterol deep treatments and roller sets.
We spent as much time at her house in Poughkeepsie as we possibly could, relishing the scent of freshly folded laundry and a kitchen filled with the smells of all her specialties. There was always something good cooling on top of the stove or table—fresh-baked sweet potato pies, peach cobbler with a buttery crust in a large rectangle roasting pan, or our favorite, banana pudding. That was the way she expressed her abiding love to all of us. If she was an artist (and she truly was), the kitchen was her studio and the place where she found the source of her creative expression. It surely was her favorite room, and it was at her kitchen table that the two of us—Miss Jessie’s “grandbabies from down New York” —learned some of our greatest values.
The biggest thing Miss Jessie taught us was how to identify a need or problem and then find a solution. “Just look around you,” she’d tell us. “All you need is right there at your fingertips. If you just use common sense, you will get it.”
That was Miss Jessie’s approach to her recipes. She made mostly everything from scratch, never needing a recipe book. She used common sense to achieve her vision, whether it was the smoothest yellow cake batter, or an egg and mayonnaise treatment she whipped up to deal with our unruly hair. She had all these down-home Southern recipes and remedies for everything under the sun, whether it was a little lard or cooking oil to smooth down her own curls, a hint of nutmeg, cinnamon, and vanilla in her sweet potato pies, or a splash of lemon and vinegar to disinfect a floor.
Miss Jessie was the most resourceful woman we’d ever met, and she passed along many of her secrets. If she couldn’t find it on the store shelves, she’d add a little of this and a little of that to create something that met her exacting standards. Whatever worked, Miss Jessie would find a way.
STRETCHING A DOLLAR
There was very little money coming into Miss Jessie’s house, although you’d never know it based on the sense of abundance her environment evoked. Whenever she needed more cash, she sold a few of her delicious pies out of her home, one of the many ways she found to make ends meet. She was a proud woman who never complained. Miss Jessie had no time for victims. That self-respect was reflected in her surroundings, which were immaculate. The place was always scrubbed clean, with sharp elegant furnishings our aunt Hilda picked out for her.
Miss Jessie bragged to all of her friends about how fabulous her wall-to-wall black velvet couch was, accented with oversize dark teal lamps and hints of blue in the drapes and pillows. Our grandmother didn’t need wealth to live richly. She could stretch a dollar to cook a feast for twelve people. She could make a bed with crisp sheets and perfect creases on the corner of a mattress. She could present herself like the refined lady she was, styling her limited staple of outfits with a pretty blouse, beautiful hats, flawless makeup, and not a hair out of place—and all of this was accomplished with one arm.
People did not think of her as disabled in any way, because she compensated by doing more than most would with two arms. She could peel all of her potatoes. Chop every last one of her onions and vegetables. Even knead the dough for her pies. And as all of her kids knew, she could beat your ass with that one arm, too.
We were too busy passing her a pan, a bag of flour, or anything Miss Jessie asked for in her kitchen to ask her how she managed. Instead, she showed us. Miss Jessie could delegate as well as any top CEO. You could not be a bump on a log around our grandmother. But we would do anything for the chance to be in that space, absorbing all of her wisdom.
Don’t adopt a victim mentality by blaming others or feeling sorry for yourself. Embrace and plan for victory.
One of the few things she struggled with was getting her hair just right. She could comb it through, but not the way she liked. Whenever she needed a roller set, she’d have to call one of the grandkids or daughters-in-law to roll up her hair. She was sure to protect her hairdo in a satin cap at bedtime. She avoided the rain and did everything she could to make her curls last until someone came to roll again in the next week or two. It’s partly why, when we got older and I was doing hair myself, Miss Jessie was excited by our weekend visits; she couldn’t wait to get her hair done. In fact, she counted the days, calling Daddy to say, “When are y’all coming? I need to se
e my girls—I want to get my hair done!”
Even in elementary school, I was experimenting with hair and, with the exception of that one incident with the paper scissors, getting good at it. Our bedroom at home was starting to look like the back room of a salon, full of my grandmother’s old wigs on Styrofoam heads, brushes, hot combs, beads, and hair accessories. I was always wetting down my own hair with water, Dixie Peach pomade with lanolin, Blue Magic hair grease, or Dippity-do gel, to see what looks I could come up with. When I wasn’t practicing on myself, Titi was my go-to model for different looks. Eventually, I would give all of my friends and relatives their first relaxers and haircuts. I’d gained something of a reputation as the Branch family hairstylist, and my services were always in demand.
After we ate a good meal was Miss Jessie’s time to get her hair done. It was always a team effort: I relaxed and trimmed our grandmother’s hair. Titi assisted, washing out Miss Jessie’s long silver hair and coating it with a concoction of eggs, mayonnaise, and vegetable oils that she prepared and mixed according to our grandmother’s precise instructions.
We cherished those times with our grandmother. She was giving us the girl time and attention we’d craved from our mother. Miss Jessie wasn’t much for hugs or saying “I love you,” but she didn’t have to. We knew it. We had our own love affair with our grandmother, apart from our parents and the rest of the family, when we would sit at the kitchen table, listening to her stories, laughing, and soaking up everything she said and did.