Doreen V. Peterson (DVP) passed away in October 2015. In her last few weeks on earth, she helped me move into my room for my Senior year at Smith College, went to Jamaica to clean her parent’s house, and returned home to work at Calvin Klein until about 3 days prior to her passing.
Years later when I endeavored to write about Motherwork, echoes of her impact implored my research questions about Black Mothers’ centrality in our families, our communities, and our economy. Yet what is lost in the objectivity of social science, is the profound understanding that her contributions to our lives was a labor of love.
In 2015 a lot of things happened for many of us, but in society, our preeminent Black thinkers were asserting that Black Lives Matter. Some were moved for different reasons—discrimination on college campuses ; police violence; wealth disparities to name a few, but many became more passionate when people vehemently protested the premise of the affirmation: Black Lives Matter. The social movement has catalyzed our reckoning with the reality that many Black lives lost by hands of the state have been justified by the cultural devaluation of Black lives. Yet like most of the turning points in our international Black freedom struggle, many demonstrations were compelled by the loss of Black men—with less fervor and attention being given to the Black women and the ways their reproductive labor makes them more vulnerable to multiple levels of violence. After protesting on the front lines, serving on committees, and overall reinforcing the value of Black life across multiple mediums, I was left with a realization that my mom’s life as a Black Woman did not matter to many.
While my mother was loving and serving everyone, she was simultaneously fighting for her life. She worked so hard to be so many things—an entrepreneur; a visual merchandiser; a supporter of women artisans—yet many failed to recognize her quest to become a breast cancer survivor. When she checked herself into Mountainside hospital after weeks of shortness of breath and back pain, the few that were privy to her silent battle filled the room—yet many of the people she mattered to didn’t have the opportunity to express their appreciation to her. I could delve into her last days on earth, as institutional neglect expedited her mortality, but out of respect for her and her privacy, I have been compelled to prove that her life matters with my literary artistry.
One of my mom’s main dreams was to open a store, and another dream was to see me write a book. Her store Open Dorz was an outpouring of her passion for fashion and empowering women artisans. Beyond the brick and mortar on S. Fullerton, she invited you into her “Dorz” by hosting markets at Grace Presbyterian Church, and more informally, as she sashayed into your worlds with her unique sense of style. I have a litany of topics I can write about, but all of those texts are rough drafts without the larger context: Doreen V. Peterson’s life matters. I believe in this truth, but I know I am not alone. You remind me when you comment on my posts, when you see me at events, or other times when I step out of the shadows of my healing—that you miss her. As we approach the 10-year anniversary of her passing, I invite you to help me Re-Open Dorz. Beyond the retail and fashion, “Dorz”—a nickname given to her by a dear friend—is a member of our family.
Many people that “matter” get the recognition they deserve, but as our social movements have demonstrated, many Black people are confronted with questions about how we “matter”. When people “matter” they get awards, statues, and other public displays of affection. My mom showed other people that their dreams mattered. She decorated the church for Vacation Bible School—a free summer program for youth; she traveled to West Virginia and served a community of people who faced intergenerational poverty; she helped create a home in the ‘sanctuary’ for the clients of the interfaith hospitality network who stayed at our church ‘home’ while trying to get employment; she enthusiastically volunteered for Pioneer Girls and the Teen youth group; and as she became diagnosed with breast cancer, she was central to transforming our church into Alice and Wonderland for Pastor Leggett’s daughter. Overall she prioritized what mattered to many, because they as individuals mattered to her. My mom showed people all over the world that they mattered to her, and it is past time, we show her that her life matters.
I was a senior in college when the doctor overseeing my mother’s ‘case’ after her pulmonary embolism gathered members of my family in a room to tell us that there was nothing he could do for her—the organs in her body were not receiving oxygen, and if they tried to conduct a surgery it would expedite her death. But at that point, he communicated something deeper—she was dying, and he had no plans of trying to revive her. In the context of Beth Israel hospital, her life did not matter. My mom—an avid fan of medical dramas like ER, Greys Anatomy, and HOUSE—was unapologetically denied the care that even fictional characters received. I was at one of the top schools in the world, yet the most profound lesson was taught by that doctor—my Mother’s Black life did not matter.
I imagined all of the people that would disagree—church family, coworkers, mentees and more – yet only a fraction of the people were in the room as I was processing his truth. I knew that I couldn’t “PROVE” her value in that context, but I have been called to set the record straight. I have a litany of memories of my mother, but the point would be lost by approaching it like a regular memoir. As such I am writing to you, to invite you to incorporate your voices and creativity to honor her memory. In the same way you invited her to things that mattered to you, I invite you to reflect on why her life mattered!
Please contribute to the ReOpen Dorz project by sharing your memories. You can use the link: bit.ly/reopeningdorz but use this as a foundation for this larger effort. I invite you to share pictures, quotes, comments, everything that is “Dorz,” so I can replace this chapter of grieving with an anthology of memories.
Gabrielle L. Peterson