Visiting Grandma Gertrude Mais

2019 revisited 2026

Keita Annie Whitten

I was about thirteen when I began visiting Grandma Mais on my own. I didn’t know much about the Bronx other than the long train ride to White Plains Road on East 225th Street, and then the dreaded six-block walk from the train station to her house. Mind you, these were not Manhattan blocks. Bronx streets ran double in length. I created all sorts of scenarios to endure this walk. Like learning to bring coins to fuel up at the corner store beforehand, with chips and soda, to make the walk more bearable. The challenge was to make my supplies last until I got to her house. 

Manhattan trains ran underground. Most Bronx stations were elevated and outside. The quiet streets below had shops located along the train route. The side streets were residential. You might find a car repair shop with men hanging out front talking as they worked or a small church- but no stores. I recall one shop right at the foot of the stairs once you came down from the platform. Inside, I discovered variations of red, black, gold, and green beaded earrings, crocheted tams, and hats. There was incense, oils, and grocery items I had not seen before. Even the music playing in the store was different. Today we would call it a Jamaican shop. Looking back, I laugh at this- I am sure from the shopkeeper’s perspective, it was simply his store. He just sold items from back home. I would stop in whenever Mom made me go visit grandma. Excursions like these became essential for breaking up the one-hour train ride, which always felt like two when you included the long walk to grandma’s house from the train station. 

Grandma’s house was always sunny, quiet, neat, and orderly – something I would learn to appreciate later in life. Grandma’s clean meant sterile, like you could eat off the bathroom floor clean. Today, only homes with hired help might achieve this. Around two o’clock, supper always simmered on the stove- it seemed we always ate baked chicken and white rice with string beans and carrots. Food was simple, meals scheduled- consistent. I loved hiding in her pantry. I was mesmerized by all the food she had stored up, especially her supply of Canada Dry Ginger Ale. At home, we never had soda. I would climb up into her snack cupboard to sneak “Pilot Crackers” -It was my secret pleasure. Back home, a package, a box of cookies, or a bag of chips did not stand a chance among us- the three girls. Our cupboards were always bare. I told myself one day I would have a pantry too. 

It would be years before I understood that the order and abundance of Grandma’s house were part of a much larger gift—one I would later recreate while raising my own boys.

My sisters and I always knew that Mais was not related to us by blood, but I did not yet understand the magnitude of what she had chosen—or how her choice would carry my mother, my sisters, and me forward.

Gertrude was initially born in Jamaica in 1900 and orphaned as an infant when her mother died. She lived through WWI, WWII, and the Great Depression. She became a citizen of Costa Rica as a child after an aunt found her and raised her. In Costa Rica, Mais was a “practical nurse” who migrated to the states for work. The story goes, Florence Anderson and Gertrude Mais were best friends, church sisters. Florence was a medium who prophesied her death by childbirth. Against the pleas of her father, Charles Squires, not to have the child, Gertrude made a pact with Florence to raise her daughter as her own. Anderson died in a coma at Harlem Hospital two days after birthing my mother, Florence II. 

Today, whenever I feel frightened or insignificant, I remember the quiet strength of Gertrude Mais. She was divine intervention—a promise fulfilled. Her devotion reminds me that my life is neither trivial nor accidental. It comes through the courage of women: one who gave me life through my mother, and another who promised to protect that life after Florence was gone.

Gertrude Mais is revered as a Sacred Gem who taught me to remain faithful to my commitments, to practice gratitude, and to remember the sacredness of what has been entrusted to me. She was and still is a precious gift—a soul to be spoken of, celebrated, and remembered. She will always be a good ancestor.