Chapter 1: Born of Strength and Hope (1885–1903)

Not a title earned through books or schooling, but a name given by her father, Wiley J. Strickland—a man of sturdy hands and limited letters, who once heard the word “Professor” spoken with reverence. He didn’t know it was a title. He only knew it sounded like someone who mattered. Someone important. So, when his daughter arrived, he gave her a name meant for greatness.

To some, it might’ve sounded foolish. But to Wiley, it was prophecy.

Professor—nicknamed “Fess”—was born into a household brimming with survival and sound. Wiley and his wife Dinah Hawkins raised thirteen children in Clarke County’s Sandy Creek District, a patchwork of farmland and pine-stitched backroads. Her siblings—Willie, Olivia, Wiley Jones, Josephine, Alfred, Alice, Viola, Asberry, Rhoena, Raymond, Samuel, and Eula—formed a living quilt of kin and resilience.

Life was hard. Georgia’s Black families in the 1880s lived under the growing shadow of Jim Crow. The end of slavery hadn’t delivered freedom—it had merely shifted the terms of captivity. Black farmers were often trapped in cycles of debt under tenant farming systems. The laws were changing—but not for them.

In the cotton fields and cabins of Sandy Creek, children woke before dawn. They fetched water, fed livestock, and helped work the land. Black girls were taught to be meek, soft-spoken, and silent.

But not Fess.

Fess was tall—taller than most of her brothers by fifteen—and broad-shouldered, with a presence that seemed carved from the very soil she walked. Her mother said she was “born ready,” and by all accounts, she was. She could carry two bales of cotton at once and silence a room with a single glance. She was more than a daughter—she was becoming a force.

She was raised under the slow-burning trauma of Plessy v. Ferguson, the 1896 decision that legalized segregation across America. Black children were sent to underfunded schools. Their families were denied loans, land, and protection. Lynchings, too, were on the rise—carried out in broad daylight, often with impunity.

Yet even under this weight, Black mothers like Dinah passed down unbreakable strength. They braided resistance into their daughters’ hair. They sang over their cooking pots, told stories of Moses and freedom, and taught the meaning of quiet power.

Fess absorbed every lesson. She stood in church pews with her chin high. She watched her mother tend to neighbors, stitch torn clothes, nurse the sick. And slowly, she stepped into the role of second mother—not by choice, but by necessity.

By the time she turned 18, she was no longer just Professor Strickland. She was the household’s backbone, the sister who calmed fights, the daughter who lifted burdens without complaint.

Then, on December 1, 1903, in Clarke County, she stood beside a man named Mercer Davenport and began a new journey. Marriage. Motherhood. Migration. A lifetime of labor and legacy.

But it all began in the clay-colored soil of Georgia, where a father dared to give his daughter a name the world would be forced to remember.

Chapter 2: Married Young and Mothering Many (1903–1910)

The winter of 1903 settled quietly over northern Georgia, but for Professor “Fess” Strickland, the world was about to change forever. On December 1st, at just 18 years old, she married Mercer Davenport—a hardworking man nearly a decade her senior—in Clarke County.

The ceremony may have been in a church or at the county courthouse. The records don’t say. But we can imagine Fess standing tall and calm, her hands calloused from labor, her spirit already weathered by duty, pledging herself to a life that would test her strength at every turn.

Mercer was 31 by the 1910 census, a man molded by Georgia’s red earth and manual work. Together, they entered marriage not with idealism, but with resolve. For Black couples in the early twentieth-century South, marriage was not just love—it was survival. A union of protection, shared labor, and unspoken prayers.

Within two years, Fess gave birth to her first child, Jacob Davenport. The floodgates of motherhood opened swiftly. Cordelia, John Wiley, and Norris followed—one after the other, like seedlings in spring. Her body became a cradle of new life, again and again.

By 1910, she and Mercer lived in Floyd County’s Rome Militia District. The census lists her as 22, already mother to four. They shared a home with Mercer’s aging father, in the tradition of multigenerational care. The house was small, likely wooden, heated by coal or firewood, lit by oil lamps. It pulsed with cries, lullabies, whispered prayers, and the sturdy rhythm of survival.

Fess rose before the sun. Her days were filled with motion: sweeping, scrubbing, nursing, cooking over open flames, teaching her children to mind their manners and fear God. She washed clothes in tin tubs, boiled water in kettles, and made cornbread stretch when meat was scarce.

And still, she stood tall.

Mercer worked—perhaps on railroads, in mills, or fields. Work for Black men was always hard and never secure. What he earned fed many mouths, but it was Fess who made every dollar, every biscuit, every moment stretch.

Her home grew beyond blood. Mercer’s niece and nephew came to live with them. This was no burden. In the African American tradition of “fictive kin,” family was formed as much by responsibility as by DNA. Fess raised them all with the same discipline, the same love, the same expectations.

To be a Black mother in the Jim Crow South was to walk a tightrope over fire.

Outside their home, Georgia burned with injustice. The 1906 Atlanta Race Riot left scores of Black men and women dead—slaughtered in the streets, in their homes, in front of their children. Voter suppression deepened. Segregation became codified. Lynchings were not hidden—they were advertised.

Fess knew this. She heard the stories, perhaps even saw the aftermath. And still, she raised her children not with fear, but with fire. They would know their worth, even in a world that denied it.

She taught her sons to walk tall, never slouch. She taught her daughters to speak clearly, but not too loudly. Her house rang with gospel songs sung while folding laundry, lessons whispered over pots of greens, and the sharp crack of her voice when rules were broken.

And somehow, in that whirlwind, there was joy.

There were fish fries in the yard, babies playing in washtubs, hymns sung under star-pinned skies. There was storytelling, hand games, and the quiet strength of a woman who carried more than most and complained less than any.

By 1910, the Davenport family was a tight-knit clan under the steady command of Fess. The children were still small. The days were still long. And the road ahead, still unwritten.

But the woman at the center—barely out of her teens—was already showing the world what her name would come to mean.

She wasn’t just Professor in name.

She was teaching a generation how to endure.

Chapter 3: The Great Migration and the Coal Business (1910–1928)

By the 1910s, Georgia’s soil had grown too heavy for the Davenport family—not just with cotton, but with sorrow, fear, and the constant weight of injustice. Professor “Fess” Strickland and her husband Mercer had built a home with their bare hands, raised their children with discipline and dignity, but the walls of the South were closing in.

Whispers turned into plans. Headlines turned into warnings.

In 1912, an entire Black community was driven out of Forsyth County, Georgia—chased by mobs and torches. In 1918, Mary Turner, a young Black mother, was lynched in Lowndes County while protesting her husband’s murder. Her death, and that of her unborn child, sent shudders through the region. These were not isolated events. They were messages.

For families like the Davenports, the cost of staying in the South could be their lives.

So they joined the movement of millions—a quiet, determined exodus. The Great Migration. Not marked by marching bands or headlines, but by hope packed in suitcases and prayers whispered on train benches.

Sometime between 1910 and 1918, the Davenports boarded a northbound train, their children in tow. Their destination: Indianapolis, Indiana.

The change was immediate. Gone were the winding red dirt roads of Georgia. In their place, cobbled city streets and smoky skies filled with the hum of railroads and factories. They settled at 117 Adelaide Street, in the heart of Indianapolis’ 7th Ward—an area thick with other migrant families from Kentucky, Tennessee, and the Deep South.

It was not glamorous. But it was safer. And it was theirs.

The 1920 U.S. Census offers a remarkable entry: Professor Davenport, coal account holder.

A Black woman, born under the long shadow of slavery, now managing a coal operation in the urban North. In an era when many Black women were still denied the right to vote, Fess had stepped into business.

It’s likely she oversaw a coal delivery route—buying coal wholesale and reselling it to Black families across Indianapolis, who depended on it for heat, cooking, and light. Coal wasn’t just fuel—it was survival. And Fess, with her towering presence and sharp mind, made herself indispensable.

Neighbors didn’t just see her as a wife or mother—they saw her as a provider. A leader. A woman who could move literal tons and still make supper on time.

All this, while raising a growing family.

By now, the Davenports had welcomed more children: Mary, Margaret, Samuel Benjamin, Ardia “Missy,” and Luther Joseph. Their home buzzed with the chatter of toddlers and teenagers, the clatter of pans, the hum of coal wagons arriving in the early dawn.

At 753 Cincinnati Street, their household was both sanctuary and headquarters.

And through it all, Fess stood at the helm—organizing deliveries, settling disputes, stirring grits, mending socks. Her hands never stopped. Her mind never slowed.

She didn’t just move north—she rose north.

She was no longer simply reacting to history. She was shaping it, block by block, street by street.

This chapter of her life was marked not just by escape, but by emergence.

The barefoot Georgia girl had become a matriarch with a business ledger. A coalwoman in command. A mother of ten, and counting. A quiet storm rising in the industrial Midwest.

And while the family would eventually move again—this time to Chicago—it was in Indianapolis that Professor “Fess” Strickland first lit the fires of her legacy.

With coal in her hands and a name that wouldn’t be forgotten.

Chapter 4: Strength in Widowhood (1928–1939)

By the late 1920s, the Davenports had found new rhythm in Chicago—a city of clattering streetcars, coal smoke, and jazz spilling from tenement windows. They had moved once again in pursuit of opportunity. But in 1928, the rhythm broke.

First came the loss of Jacob.

Her firstborn. The boy who had carried her hopes from Georgia to Indiana. Whether it was sickness, accident, or something unspeakable, Jacob’s death left a hollow in the family that could not be filled. Fess did not wail in public. She did not collapse. But something in her gaze shifted. The light behind her eyes dimmed, only briefly, before it was replaced with fire.

Then came the second blow.

Later that same year, Mercer Davenport—her husband, her partner through two decades of toil and triumph—was gone.

No funeral can prepare a woman for widowhood. Especially not one with twelve children still under her roof.

Fess stood tall at Mercer’s burial, her frame unshaken even as the earth opened to take him. She had no luxury of time for grief. There were mouths to feed. Rent to pay. Babies still learning to walk.

The 1930 U.S. Census captured what official records rarely reveal: resilience in motion. At 1113 14th Street, on Chicago’s West Side, Fess was listed as the head of household. Inside those walls lived a living testament to her strength—Cordelia, John Wiley, Norris, Thomas Edward Sr., Mary, Margaret, Samuel, Ardia “Missy,” Luther, Theodore, Betty Jean, and Louise Marie.

Twelve children. One mother. No husband.

And yet, that house did not fall.

She took in a boarder—a quiet man who paid enough to cover the water bill. She cooked in cast-iron pots big enough for a crowd. She mended shirts by moonlight, kept the younger ones in line with a single look, and found strength in silence.

John Wiley, her second-born son, now in his early twenties, stepped into Mercer’s shoes. He labored on the railroad, shoulders hunched against cold steel and colder racism. Every paycheck was handed to his mother, and not once did he question her leadership.

Fess leaned on him the way she once leaned on Mercer—not as a crutch, but as a brace. Together, they carried the family through the Great Depression.

The South Side and West Side of Chicago were bursting at the seams with Black families fleeing Southern terror, only to find Northern struggle. Jobs vanished as the markets crashed. White workers were prioritized. Black workers were discarded.

But Fess did not believe in despair. She believed in fishing.

Twice a week, no matter the weather, she could be found near the water—pole in hand, chin high, a cigarette dangling from her lip. Sometimes she brought her children, teaching them how to cast with patience and reel with purpose. Sometimes she went alone, retreating into silence, letting the water wash away the weight of her world.

That ritual—fishing—was not escape. It was preparation. A return to stillness so she could face the storm anew.

In the neighborhood, she became something of a legend. At nearly six feet tall, with a voice that could halt a fight and arms strong enough to lift a man off the ground, Professor “Fess” Strickland earned both reverence and fear.

Men nodded respectfully when she passed. Children straightened their backs. Neighbors sent their own kids to her when they needed discipline. Her house was not just a home—it was an institution.

And yet, she was not hard. She loved deeply.

She sang while cooking. She prayed over her children’s beds. She shared cornbread with neighbors who had less. Her table was always open. Her presence, an anchor.

By 1935, Fess had survived the unimaginable: the loss of a son, the loss of a husband, a migration across three states, and the weight of the Depression. And still, every child she bore remained clothed, fed, and rooted in love.

She had kept her name.

And soon, she would build an even greater home—in the northern state of Michigan, where her story would take its final, legendary form.

Chapter 5: The Mayor of Birch Street (1940–1950)

When Professor “Fess” Strickland arrived in Lansing, Michigan, she had already weathered a thousand storms. She had crossed three states, buried a husband, raised twelve children, and become the spiritual anchor of her family. But in this next chapter, she would become something else entirely:

The Mayor of Birch Street.

The move came sometime between 1935 and 1940. Lansing, with its sprawling auto plants and promises of union work, was calling to Black families across the Midwest. The Oldsmobile factory, in particular, drew thousands in search of something rare—economic stability and a sliver more dignity.

But for Fess, the move wasn’t just about work. It was about coming home to family.

Her parents, Wiley J. Strickland and Dinah Hawkins, were already settled in Lansing. And for the first time in decades, Fess could lean on someone else—just a little. The woman who had carried generations on her back was returning to a city where love waited at the door.

By 1940, she and her children lived at 1533 Knollwood Avenue. But it was 1022 Birch Street—just a few blocks away—where her legend would take root.

A modest, two-story house on a quiet lane, Birch Street didn’t look like much from the outside. White clapboard siding. A narrow porch. A small, well-kept yard. But within its walls, Fess created a fortress.

This was not just a house—it was a command post, a community center, a place where generations were molded, rules were enforced, and love was doled out in strong, steady doses.

She kept her yard swept. Her porch freshly painted. The children—hers and others—watched under her strict but loving eye. She knew everyone on the block, and everyone knew her.

It wasn’t long before they gave her a name.

“The Mayor of Birch Street.”

Not an official title. But no other title fit. When Fess spoke, people listened. When she frowned, people corrected themselves. When she walked down the street—tall, broad-shouldered, and silent—men tipped their hats. Teenagers hushed. Children adjusted their behavior without a word spoken.

Her strength was legendary. She could carry a full-grown man on her back, and she had. Her voice didn’t need to rise; her presence was enough.

Yet, she was never cruel. She gave respect when it was earned. Love when it was needed. And food when there wasn’t enough in the neighbor’s pot.

In the early 1940s, Fess remarried—a man named Charles Mulligan. On paper, she became Professor Mulligan, a name that appeared on her son Theodore’s 1945 World War II draft card. It wasn’t a long-lasting marriage, but it marked something powerful: Fess, even after loss, still believed in the possibility of rebuilding.

She kept on. Her household expanded again—grown children, grandchildren, even in-laws all passed through Birch Street. But it wasn’t chaos. It was a symphony, and she was its conductor.

She taught grandchildren how to shell peas, how to hold their heads high, how to fish quietly, and how to carry themselves like somebody. Her house was filled with gospel hums, the scent of fried catfish, and the firm hand of a woman who had mastered the art of discipline wrapped in love.

In 1946, sorrow returned.

Both her parents passed away—Wiley in February, Dinah in September. Losing them both in one year was a cruel blow. But Fess stood firm. She buried them with honor in Mount Hope Cemetery, just a short drive from her home. And then she returned to Birch Street and kept moving forward—just as they taught her.

By decade’s end, the house at 1022 Birch Street had become a pillar. A beacon. A story told in whispered reverence by neighbors, churchgoers, and family alike.

Fess wasn’t chasing greatness. She simply lived it—quietly, powerfully, and without apology.

She was still fishing two to three times a week. Still correcting the neighborhood kids with a glance. Still walking with purpose through Lansing, her name recognized in every store and every pew at Collins Memorial Church, where she was a respected elder.

In time, she married once more—a man named William Barnard Kemp, a quiet, dignified man who shared her pace and her presence. On the 1950 census, she was listed as Professor Kemp, still living at Birch Street, surrounded by children and grandchildren, holding the legacy she had built with her own two hands.

And yet, in all the years and all the titles, one thing never changed.

She was still Professor.

Not by accident. By legacy.

Chapter 6: A Life Remembered (1950–1964)

By the 1950s, Professor “Fess” Strickland—now Mrs. Kemp—had become something more than a mother, more than a widow, more than a name passed down through birth certificates and census ledgers.

She had become a living monument.

At 1022 Birch Street, in a modest house with creaking floorboards and sun-drenched windows, Fess lived surrounded by the fruits of her labor. Her husband, William Barnard Kemp, had joined her in the final movement of her life—an era of peace, but never of rest.

She remained the heartbeat of her family.

The census from 1950 shows what no statistic could capture: a legacy in motion. Under her roof lived her son Luther. Her daughter Betty Jean, now married to James Howlett. And a three-year-old granddaughter, Jean—wide-eyed, talkative, and always underfoot, asking questions.

Fess wasn’t working outside the home by then. But don’t mistake stillness for idleness. Her hands stayed busy. Her voice—slower now—still carried authority. She taught lessons over biscuits, corrected posture with a glance, and told stories so vivid her grandchildren could see them unfold.

And always, there was fishing.

Fess fished two to three times a week, no matter her age. She brought the little ones with her—bundled in coats, clutching juice boxes and string poles, watching in awe as their grandmother baited a hook like a surgeon, cast a line like a priest, and waited like a prophet.

She taught them patience.

She taught them silence.

She taught them that what you pulled from deep waters could feed more than just a body.

At Collins Memorial Church, she was a pillar. An elder whose presence was enough to hush a room. Younger women watched her walk the aisle with upright dignity. Older men tipped their hats. She never wore a crown, but everyone knew: she ruled that pew.

She joined a local senior citizens club, not to slow down, but to keep company. She played cards with a sharp tongue. Traded recipes she’d memorized decades earlier. And laughed in a way that made people feel safe—even when her expression could still silence a grandchild across the room.

As the 1950s gave way to the 1960s, the world changed. Her children became parents. Her grandchildren became soldiers, pastors, nurses, teachers. The Civil Rights Movement gained momentum, and while Fess didn’t march in the streets, her legacy lived in those who did.

Her lessons echoed through generations:

Work hard. Protect your name. Watch your mouth. Love your kin. Keep your peace. Don’t let this world tell you who you are.

Her children carried those lessons into marriages, into workplaces, into their own parenting. And even when they left Birch Street—spreading across Michigan, Indiana, Illinois—they returned with their children in tow, knowing the safest place in the world was Grandma Fess’s front room.

She had weathered Reconstruction, Jim Crow, the Great Depression, and two world wars. And she had built something no law could take away:

A family that stood strong.

In her final years, Fess slowed—but she never stopped. Her hands still moved. Her house still echoed. Her name still held weight.

And then, on January 19, 1964, in the city she had helped shape with her bare hands and unwavering will, Professor “Fess” Strickland passed away. She was 79 years old.

She died at home—her home—surrounded by those who loved her. The same walls that had seen midnight feedings, early morning fish fries, and decades of discipline now bore witness to quiet goodbyes.

She was buried in Mount Hope Cemetery, just a short ride from Birch Street. Not far from the graves of her parents. Not far from the house that became her kingdom.

No newspaper headline announced her passing. No monument was built in her name.

But ask anyone who grew up on Birch Street.

They’ll tell you:

She was the Mayor.
She was the Professor.
She was the matriarch.
She was ours.