The Power of a Matriarch: What the Life of Susie W. Roberts Teaches Us About the Black Family

By RoShawn Winburn

I grew up watching Mrs. Susie Roberts walk into St. Benedict the Moor with a straightness in her back that said everything you needed to know about who she was. She never stepped outside without lipstick and earrings. She carried herself with dignity, and in turn, we learned to do the same. When you saw her, you stood a little taller yourself.

For Black History Month, we tend to spotlight the bold names of the marchers, the legislators, and the headline makers, as we should. Yet, if you look really closely, the backbone of Black history could simply be your cherished memory of a woman standing in a kitchen, a classroom, or a church pew. She's neither quoted, nor photographed, but everything around her exists because she held it together.

Susie W. Roberts was one of those women.

Born in 1923 in Montgomery, Alabama, her life stretched across 102 years. Jim Crow. World War II. The Civil Rights Movement. Desegregation. Urban change. The Great Migration's reverberations. She didn't just witness history; she stabilized her family through it, and that's the part we don't talk about enough.

The Matriarch as Anchor

Susie's granddaughter, Nikol Miller, tells the family's Dayton origin story. "When my grandparents moved to Dayton, they stayed in DeSoto Bass. At that time, it was wartime housing. There, they met Mr. and Mrs. Washington who helped them convert to Catholicism in 1946. After DeSoto Bass, they rented a house on Weaver Street, and eventually moved into the family home on Wisconsin Boulevard in 1958."

The purchase was a land contract. Even though Harold had served in World War II, he couldn't use the GI Bill to purchase a house because he was Black. His brother Richard gave them $5,000 for the down payment—a significant sum in the late 1950s.

But the Roberts home on Wisconsin Boulevard became more than property. It represented something in Dayton. It was a launchpad. And it had an open door, especially when someone was in need.

If you were sick, she nursed you back to health. If you were hungry, she fed you. If you needed a place to stay, she housed you. If you needed a few dollars, she was the bank. And if you shared a secret, she kept it. That's what a caretaker does.

Ten children grew up under that roof - Ten. That's not accidental. That's management. That's discipline. That's structure. That's a woman who understood that order inside the home creates freedom outside of it.

The Family of Harold and Susie W. Roberts

Her children learned responsibility early: paper routes, shared chores, accountability. There were rules. There was faith. There was expectation, and there was love. The kind of love that shows up as a warm meal and a firm hand in equal measure. 'She was loving but firm,' one family member recalls. 'She allowed each child to develop their own personality. When we got out of line, she disciplined us. But she always made sure we knew we were loved.'

And yes, there was the house shoe. If you know, you know.

Stephen Martin Roberts, one of her sons, would go on to serve in the U.S. Air Force, earn multiple degrees, advocate for workers' rights, and dedicate his career to public service in Dayton and Columbus. His obituary reads like a civic résumé. But If you knew him, and if you read between the lines, you see something else. You see a boy shaped by a mother who taught consistency. You see a man formed by a woman who modeled service.

When Stability Is Revolutionary

We often frame Black history around protest, and rightly so. Protest demands recognition. But what Mrs. Roberts did was its own kind of revolution. While policies shifted and neighborhoods changed, she kept a prayer list. And not just in theory. If you asked her to pray for you, she would write your name down and call you by name in her prayers. Faith was active, personal, and intentional.

She watched Mass and Mother Angelica every day on television. She said her morning and evening prayers faithfully. She was involved in the Leisure Club, the Altar Rosary Society, the Ladies Auxiliary, and the Bereavement Committee at St. Benedict the Moor. After Harold passed, her travel companions—the 'Awesome Foursome'—were Sister Virginia, Mrs. Peasant, and Mrs. Poole.

Mrs. Roberts along with her travel companions.

She taught school. She raised children. She served faithfully. She made dinner rolls for Thanksgiving that people still talk about. She enforced discipline with what family lore describes as remarkable aim and a well-timed house slipper. And she lived by one rule she repeated often: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

A stable Black household in mid-20th century America was resistance. An educated Black mother who insisted on order was resistance. Ten children who grew into professionals, advocates, teachers, and community leaders—that's legacy, and legacy compounds.

Here's what often gets missed when we talk about the struggles of the Black family: we spend so much time cataloging what broke that we forget to study what held. What held wasn't always loud. It was often a grandmother's voice at the dinner table. A mother's insistence on Sunday clothes. A woman who made you feel seen even when the world was trying to make you invisible.

Roots in Montgomery

Susie's upbringing in Montgomery was both sheltered and significant. She attended school on Alabama State's campus for sixteen years. Her father was an alumnus who became the Buildings Supervisor after graduating. He was a carpenter by trade. Their cousins owned a funeral home, and she worked for a Black jeweler. Because they lived so close to campus, homecoming was a family-centered event.

Even within the segregated South, their community was somewhat insulated, supported by Black institutions and businesses they patronized. It was a world of entrepreneurship, education, and self-sufficiency born of necessity and determination.

However, the violence of Jim Crow was never far away. She shared only a few stories about segregation, but they were telling. When she was a child, her father was beaten by police, and his teeth were knocked out. Her mother's family had connections to a prominent white family in Montgomery, the Reese family, who were attorneys. They filed a lawsuit, and her father received $500.

Another incident involved her brother when he was fifteen. She did not recall the details, but whatever occurred was serious enough that her parents sent him to live with an aunt in Detroit afterward.

What strikes me is how, in the late 1920s or early 1930s, a Black man was able to receive $500 following an altercation with the police. It suggests complexity in that era that we do not often discuss—networks, advocacy, and the power of strategic relationships even within oppressive systems.

She carried those lessons north. Deep ties to Montgomery, the birthplace of the Civil Rights Movement, connections to Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, and a family tradition of public service shaped the era in which her children came of age. Growing up in the 1950s, 60s, and 70s meant witnessing movements within the Catholic Church for Black Catholics, the formation of Black student organizations, and broader civil rights advocacy and legislation.

She was active, and they were, too. She was proud of each of them.

The Ripple Effect You Can See

I've watched the Roberts family for decades now. Not from a distance, but up close at church services, community meetings, school events, neighborhood gatherings. Wisconsin Boulevard was filled with families who had five or more children around the same age as one of the ten. The Roberts, Davis, and Childs families all lived on the street. From St. John's to St. James, the children went to church and school together. Even some non-Catholic neighborhood children attended high school at Julienne or Chaminade.

Mrs. Roberts never had a driver's license. Her husband drove her everywhere. After he passed, she had plenty of drivers. As she aged, she often expressed gratitude that her children still visited her regularly. On any given day, at least five of the ten would stop by her house. On special occasions, all ten, along with their children and in-laws, would gather.

Because she rarely had to leave home, she would say, 'I took care of them, and now they take care of me.'

A matriarch doesn't just raise children. She sets tone. She sets temperature. She establishes what 'normal' looks like. In Susie's home, normal meant faith was practiced, not just discussed. Education was not optional. it was expected. Her home was a place of learning, with encyclopedias for research reports and books for every age level. As a teacher, she corrected speech regularly. Work was honorable. She was proud that all of her children had jobs, whether they held degrees or not. Family was central, and community involvement was a duty, not an option.

There was one rule in Susie’s house that was absolutely non-negotiable: 'If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say anything at all.'

That kind of household produces citizens in the truest sense. Mrs. Roberts raised people who understand that their individual success is tied to collective well-being.

The Quiet Blueprint

There's a temptation in modern conversation to talk about the Black family only through crisis statistics. We hear about broken homes, economic gaps, social strain. And those realities exist and matter. Yet, what about the households that held? What about the women who enforced structure without applause? What about the grandmothers who became spiritual headquarters?

This is where the narrative often diminishes women's work, particularly Black women's work. We call it 'soft' or 'private' or 'traditional,' as if those words mean 'less important.' But creating the conditions for ten children to thrive, to believe in themselves, to serve their neighbors is community building.

Black History Month isn't just about those who changed laws. It's about those who changed trajectories. Susie W. Roberts was not famous in the national sense, but in Dayton, and in the lives of hundreds of former students and dozens of descendants, she was foundational.

Why This Still Matters

Strong matriarchs have long functioned as stabilizing forces in Black communities, especially during eras when external systems were unreliable or openly hostile. They were culture keepers. Discipline setters. Spiritual anchors. Economic managers. Conflict mediators. Memory holders. They turned houses into institutions.

Susie's life reminds us that the Black family's resilience has often rested on the shoulders of women who understood that their consistency mattered, even when no one outside the home noticed. Even when the broader culture treated their labor as invisible. Even when the professional world undervalued their intelligence and capability.

The traditions she brought north with her continue to permeate the generations. She loved when the family gathered, not just her direct lineage, but her siblings' families as well. Family gatherings often include spirited debates, but she always encouraged the family to remain respectful and loving.

“Since her passing, there has been a noticeable void when visiting her home. She was always there, so you expect her to still be there. As a family, we are adjusting to life without her physical presence. She was such an optimistic person that her words, prayers, encouragement, and even her gentle chastisement, kept us grounded,” shared Nikol.

If we want strong communities, we must recognize and support the women who quietly build them. Not with platitudes, but with resources. Not with empty praise, but with systems that honor their work as essential infrastructure.

This Black History Month, as we celebrate activists, entrepreneurs, and trailblazers, let's also honor the matriarchs. The teachers who shaped minds in classrooms and kitchens. The women who held families together when everything outside threatened to pull them apart. The grandmothers whose prayers covered generations.

Because sometimes the most powerful leadership doesn't happen at a podium. It happens at a kitchen table.

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I think of Mrs. Roberts often. Not just during Black History Month, but whenever I see young people from Dayton stepping into leadership. Whenever I watch a Roberts family member show up for community work—and they always do—I see her influence. The straightness in the back. The insistence on excellence. The understanding that service is not optional.

Because she was both beloved and respected, she modeled a way of being that held our family together.

That's what a matriarch builds. Not just a family tree, but a forest.