This weekend, the world lost another soul, that of the multi-talented B. Smith to the disease of Alzheimer's. First off, let me say that I never knew her. It wasn't until I made it to this area that I had any inkling of who she was.
For those of you unfamiliar with her, she was most recently in the news February of last year because her husband caused quite a stir of controversy when it was uncovered that he had a live-in girlfriend who also served as a caretaker. That the last years of this extraordinary woman's life became reduced to a disease that in many ways swallowed her whole is a sad testament to Alzheimer's devastating and long-lasting effects. There is no crueler way to die than to not be able to remember your life.
I first came across B. Smith as a young transplant back into the nation's capital. One of my favorite hangout spots when I was a young college student used to be Union Station. I would venture with or meet friends there via the Metro. The fascination with Union Station is that it was an all-in-one hub in the center of the city, rife with historic promise in and of itself. In the early 90s, it had a movie theater in addition to dozens of shops and eateries. As a young woman, going down there infused me with a sense of independence since I could get there all on my own via public transportation (a reason I still love Pentagon City as well). I confess that it's still fun to venture down there and reminisce, and it's also where I catch the Amtrak whenever I go out of town via train.
B. Smith's was one of the prominent restaurants there, visible from the entrance with an open air atmosphere in the middle of the lobby. I always made a silent promise to myself to one day dine there, but alas, I never availed myself of that opportunity. As I said, I had no idea who she was, but somehow I managed to glean that the restaurant was Black-owned and even at the end of the 20th century, this was a big deal, because to me, B. Smith invented the concept of upscale soul food. I would later find out that she did so much more and in many ways, paved the way and became a blueprint for Oprah Winfrey's success.
NPR wrote up a fantastic tribute to her, but to summarize some important timeline facts:
- She was born Barbara, but shortened the name to B. after becoming a successful model right out of high school.
- After modeling, she turned into a restaurateur, opening locations in Manhattan, Long Island, and DC.
- She created an empire that bestselling cookbooks, a talk show, a lifestyle magazine, plus her own line of housewares, bed linens, and At Home with B. Smith furniture line.
Mistakenly, she was referred to as the black Martha Stewart, which of course diminished her talent. If anything, she and Martha should have been comparative contemporaries of one another.
Sadly, B. Smith's world started to crumble in 2013 as she started to forget things, most shockingly in the middle of a television appearance. The official diagnosis would soon follow with a public announcement. Yet, Smith and her husband made the most of the hand they were dealt with the publication of their book Before I Forget. Then she quietly faded out of the limelight--again until last year when the controversy surfaced.
I hold no judgment against her husband for his life choice, and I ask that others reserve theirs as well. It is difficult being a caregiver under normal circumstances. The last years of my parents' lives were filled with me running back and forth to either a nursing home or traversing 2 1/2 hours away, with the last months filled with visits to doctor's offices and government agencies to provide security for them in their golden years. I can only imagine the suffering Smith's husband endured as day to day, he looked at someone he loved, who in the end, didn't recognize him. Last year, he went on ">The View to defend himself against all the backlash he was receiving.
When I was a child, I knew a woman with Alzheimer's. She was a distant relative and for two summers, my mother and I went to her and her husband's home on Benning Road and spent a good part of the summer. The last summer was the strangest as from day to day, the lady of the house would be in and out of memory lapses. On the days where she was out memory lapses, she would be either a young girl who would plait her hair into three braids, or a young woman who didn't understand why she was married to an old man.
And I imagine it was just as tragic for the husband as he could only observe this deterioration and understand that the love of his life viewed him as a stranger. In the recesses of my mind, I can faintly remember 10-year-old me hearing him plead with her, calling out "Ora" on more than one occasion. Besides the obvious stripping of memory, the disease seems to come in at a crawl and then sweep through rapidly. But it takes with it the very essence of the person it inhabits.
B. Smith's legacy is two-fold: first of all, it is a challenge to live as she did in her prime and examine as many ventures as we want. Secondly, it is to live a life with relatively few regrets. One of my largest was that I never dined at her restaurant because I always gave myself the excuse of next time. We never know when that next time will be, so it is important to snatch opportunities when they are presented, even if there are no guarantees of success. Some of my most unexpected rewards came when I just leaped without the extreme expectation.
Farewell B. Smith. Yours is a legacy that we won't forget, even though you were forced to.
On another separate note, I have just learned of the death of Katherine Johnson, mathematician to NASA, whose story was uncovered by the book and subsequent movie Hidden Figures. She was 101.
