On who we write for

For Lydia Ritchie (April 19, 1948 - April 4, 2025), transcribed from my notebook on May 1, 2025

It’s kind of a silly question, especially when it’s posed to other people who write or create or draw or dance. The platonic ideal of a “creative” is one of who is intrinsically motivated, who doesn’t feel a spur kicked in their side to produce something that matters. It’s what we all want to be, right? To confidently answer when prodded, saying, “I made this because I felt as though I could.” How romantic.

I do think there is room for more nuance on the question, because what of muses? What of inspirations? Those figures and landscapes who compel us to make works with fiery passion and sustained effort. I’ve always felt as though it’s a chicken-egg situation, of sorts. Two powerful forces that combine to spark a creative burst that is at the center of what one does. I’ve always enjoyed how the two presences work in concert, filling the void for motivation when another is lacking. When you’ve faltered in your own spirit, that there is someone or something that would love to read your next thing, or is waiting to be called out to, or just wants to know that you’re still putting one foot in front of the other. That’s more than enough to make someone put pen to paper, for at least one more time.

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Mamasun, Lydia Ritchie, my dad’s mom, morphed into a prudent follower of routine. Every Monday, before I had woken up most times, she would send a text, imploring me to have a good week. Without fail, accompanied by a gif pulled from who-knows-where of some adorable cartoon character, my phone would buzz before the world had even begun to think of stirring. It was the first thing I would see each week. And I would reply with a “Love you much,” when quickly became our way of saying “I love you” multiplied by a billion. It’s hard to overstate the comfort in expecting the arrival of a text like that. To know that Sunday scaries are no match for the message that implores you to have the best week possible. Even if you fall short in reaching that goal, it’s alright. You can try again next week. That text will meet you at the starting line next time, happy to see you again at the beginning.

For a while, these texts were our main mode of communication (save for the calls on birthdays and familial holidays). It’s hard when acts of love were contained to the confines of a small screen, but that seemed to fall in line with the relationships I cherished most, so it never felt out of the ordinary. But even across the distance, Mamasun’s fierce passion for the ones she loved and the things that she cared about showed up, through and through. Years of raising a wrestler and football players and being a grandparent to baseball players and every sport in between had rubbed off on her (or maybe it was the other way round). She loved talking about baseball and the Orioles, she loved talking about football (she had an affinity for Pat Mahomes and the way he played quarterback), and that interest often went into my direction.

Whenever a big game was on, I could expect a text about it, as long as she was watching. And because of my work, the occasional baseball writing that focused on the Black history and future in the game, fell into the category of things she cared about. In fact, all of my writing, with no preference for topic or tenor, was of interest to her. She read everything, from the game recaps to the album reviews, to the Substack ramblings that sprouted from my notebook in fit of distress and rumination. She read them all, and I’m sure they weren’t all things that she cared about on the surface. That felt impossible. But that’s how she was to all of her grandchildren, to her three sons, to her sisters and brother, to the flight attendants that she mentored for 30 years, to the woman she handmade dresses for over two decades. The level of care and love that she dispelled automatically, at will, seemed improbable, but alas, it existed. And the world and I and all who knew her were better for it.

And I know it’s not supposed to, but something happens to your mindset when you know that someone is going to be reading your work. It’s not as foreboding as the feeling that somebody is looking over your shoulder, like Big Brother waiting to judge and persecute every thought. It’s a warmer, more inviting sensation; not unlike the rush that one gets when they rush home to show their parents a homemade project or an A+ on a Math quiz, when stuff like that ruled the top of mind. Of course, the motivation to write starts with you, that you’ve been compelled by the sheer force of inspiration. But the love of someone else invested in your passion and existence is just as powerful a force, just pulling in the opposite direction. Fatigue and pain and heartbreak can sap the strength of that internal fire, but that emotional investment from an external source of love is just like a well-timed addition of coal as the wheels begin to slow.

There were plenty of scribbled down essays that hurt to write and to share, or stories and situations that had tested my patience to the point they felt like chores, that were met with texts from Mamsun about how much she enjoyed them. Or how they brought her hope about Black people’s place in baseball, or how the moments where my emotions in my words made her cry, even when I felt as though I wanted to stop at each syllable. Those texts were better than any review or any invoice that could ever be filed. I don’t know about the process of making one’s words matter to the world, but to have my words matter to Mamasun outweigh any potential prize that could come from anyone else.

In the weeks before her passing, the texts from Mamasun, Lydia Ritchie, my dad’s mom, started to slow and then stop altogether. I did not get to call or see her before she moved on from here, before she was freed from her pain under her own volition. In the presence of the silence, I re-read our texts, more than I’d like to admit, more than I want feel as though I need to. It is strange, and sad, to write now knowing that she won’t be there to read those words. Especially these specific words. All I can do is remember that for a long time, the love she gave at every turn and interaction had a hand in putting those words down, and that they had a hand in putting one step forward, one foot in front of the other. It’s the least that I can do for her.