A Son’s Eulogy to His Mother
My name is Harrison and Mrs. Wheeler was my mother (dare I call her by her first name). My Mom would be happy to see everyone here today.
I’m fortunate enough to have so many beautiful moments to share with you all because my mother was an extraordinary human being. She deserves a proper celebration of the life and legacy she leaves with us.
My mom was born here in East St. Louis on May 26, 1950. She was the youngest of ten brothers and sisters.
She eventually left East St. Louis to attend Concordia College, where she met my father; the rest is history. They were married on August 16, 1975, and I came along about 11 years later.
This is the letter I wrote for her eulogy.
Dear Mom,
I can’t quite figure out why you would live in places like the Bahamas, California, and Florida only to come and settle in a cold and brisk place like Milwaukee, but after all, you met Dad in Moorhead, Minnesota. There could have been worse places to settle, I guess. You told me that regardless of your and Dad’s decisions, you all had faith that it would pan out because they had each other.
The year before I was born you went through a bout of cancer, I can’t imagine how hard it must have been, but I’m thankful you stuck through it so that I could have a life here on earth.
You imparted the value of maintaining bank accounts, making long-term investments, and keeping affairs in order. You also emphasized the importance of having a side hustle every now and then and instilled the significance of a skincare routine before it became a trend.
Your lessons were not always direct because you knew we needed to learn through our own experiences. That was the beauty of it: you were intentional in everything you instilled in us.
You taught me how to operate in a world that wasn’t always fair to young black men. You emphasized the difference between saying “I am not” and “ain’t,” and you made sure I recognized that you taught me better if I swayed.
You were someone who had an active presence in our schools. Every principal and teacher knew you by name, and notice — I didn’t say that the other way around. At one point, Milwaukee Public Schools had a slogan, “High Standards Start Here,” and I was convinced you were on the marketing team.
You instilled so much self-confidence in us Wheeler boys that if our classmates gave us a hard time or said we weren’t qualified enough, it never bothered us because we knew it was about the long game. As you would say, “not everyone is your friend,” and our intelligence was a gift we were blessed with.
It’s easy to tell someone to dream big, but supporting those dreams is hard work. It takes dedication, consistency, and investment. You supported my dreams no matter how they started or how much you understood them.
When I built sprawling paper cities out of printer paper, you didn’t come tearing them down. You listened to my vision, even if you imposed some limits. Despite long days at work filled with office politics, difficult students, or irrational parents, you always made it to every track meet or football game. You even had the connections to fix that five-year-old computer, enabling me to build my first website. The sum of gestures helped cultivate who I am today and go beyond what we could have imagined.
You had an endearing sense of quiet compassion. Whether it was passing along a stick of Freedent gum during a long church service, complimenting my braided hairstyle because you knew how empowering it was, or telling Dad to pack an extra handkerchief on my wedding day because you couldn’t make it, your thoughtful actions always showed how much you put us first.
A few months ago you told me when you moved to Milwaukee you wanted to be more than just the preacher’s wife, which made me so proud. You wanted and were determined to create your own identity. I know you can’t see it, but every person paying their respects to you is a part of that identity.
You left this world as the same woman you lived it, on your terms, with dignity, compassion, and love.
We made a promise to call each other weekly, and we did that for the past 19 years, sometimes speaking for hours. I knew how much it made your day when we talked, and it also made mine. While those calls won’t happen anymore, I won’t regret that we said I love you after each talk and I have these memories to hold on to and celebrate.
I love you, mom
I want to thank all of you for coming here today to help us, as a family, to heal and to celebrate my mom’s life. Though she left us too soon, she will live in our hearts forever.
