When I was growing up, my mom always said, "No good can come from running your mouth." I believed her, and even though I was in no way ashamed of what she did for a living, I never, ever told anyone that my mother was a numbers runner. Fast-forward decades, and when my son was 10 years old, he looked at a photo of my mom and asked me, "Mom, what was she like?"
I said, "Oh, she was amazing." But inside, my heart was breaking. I realized I'd done such a great job of keeping my mom's secret, that I'd kept her secret from my own children. I knew that had to stop, and a week later I flew to Detroit to sit across from my mother's remaining sister, my Aunt Florence. I told her that I wanted to write about Fannie's life in the Numbers. Did she think that would be okay? Did she approve?
"Hell, I'll help you tell it," she said. "Cause what your Mama did was unheard of, and folks ought to know."
With her blessing, I began researching the story, ultimately talking with 25 different people who'd known my mother, and also digging into the history of the Numbers in this country. In the process, I learned that my mother was the only woman in Detroit "banking" the Numbers during the 1960s and '70s. I also learned how many people she'd helped, how important this underground economy was to black communities, and how many folks had been keeping the same secret for decades. I also discovered the power of revelation: Now, people from myriad ethnic backgrounds are inspired by my mom's story and spurred to tell their own stories about loved ones who were "in the Numbers." My mother's story has spawned a collective remembrance, and that feels like a fitting way to honor her, and her legacy.
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