Good afternoon, family and friends.
Today, I stand simply as a daughter—grateful, humbled, and heartbroken to honor my father who aside from his own accomplishments was a great father to me.
My dad, Sylvester Mondubue Grigsby, Greg, was so many things to so many people: a diplomat, a statesman, a trusted friend, a proud Liberian. He would call me Mayumi G and I would call him Daddy G.
What may not surprise you is that my father was a nerd – he would watch silly shows with me and then give notes like we were watching a documentary – we would watch the tv show Power and he would say – the Russian gangsters wouldn’t do that. Even when he was sick, we would watch game shows and a question came on about obscure topics like Japanese history and he answered correctly.
On my birthday he gave me a gift of earrings and a necklace with the Adinkra symbol, Gye Nyame— “Except for God.” A symbol that teaches about faith, humility, the eternal presence of the divine. My father lived his life with that same awareness: that no matter how high he rose, how respected he became, he walked humbly, knowing life has a power greater than ourselves. And yet, within that humility, he carried so much strength, character, and dignity. Whenever things got particularly stressful in Liberia and I feared for him when he took on ethical stances that did not make him popular, he said except for God, only God knows how this end.
But to me, before and above all else, he was just my dad.
When I lived in France and he was working grueling hours in Brussels, he would finish his long days, hop on a train, and come all the way to Paris—just to sit with me, talk with me, and help me with my homework. That’s who he was. He could be in rooms with presidents and prime ministers, but he never forgot the importance of showing up for his daughter. And for me, his time was the greatest gift.
I heard that he told my mom, I tell people my wife and children can take care of themselves so I take care of other people. I think he was confused because we did need him but all we wanted from him was his time. For me even with all of the changes, leaving Liberia, being separated, he was always there and all I wanted was his time and to hear his laugh.
Even when I was grown, he never stopped being there. When I was sick in Chicago, he came to care for me. He washed my dishes, he organized my house, he even cooked corned beef and rice for me. We would talk about everything—Sidney Poitier passed while he was there and I found out that he was one of his heroes. He told me what it meant to see a Black man with dignity, with courage, with presence. And in truth, my father carried those same qualities himself.
He was kind. He was funny. He was caring. And he was honest—sometimes too honest. If I complained about gaining weight, he would just shrug and say, “Yes, and?”
He wasn’t great at comforting tears, but his truth always carried its own kind of comfort. He loved and respected my mother – he would always tell me to ask her about my clothes and managing my finances. Even when we all lived apart, he would never go against something she said.
He also shaped who I became. One day when I was 6 he looked at me and declared, “You’re going to be a lawyer. “He told me I would be a diplomat. I fought him on it, but—of course—he was right. I worked in Liberia in diplomacy. I became a lawyer. On the day of my law school graduation, he called me and told me it was time to go for my MBA. And I said, Daddy, it gets to a point. Even in his final days, he would remind me—half joking, half proud— “Watch your tone with the doctors. Your father is a diplomat! A world-renowned diplomat!” Then he would laugh, that unmistakable laugh full of joy.
My mother loved to tell the story of how he “stole me away to Liberia like a thief in the night” when I went to work there but the truth is I just wanted to be close to him. And when I was upset, he didn’t have time for me. He was so upset that I was upset that I had to stop and think of him. That was my dad—full of courage, and full of dreams for his family. He was proud of me as well.
I’ll never forget the way he spoke about coming to Chicago on delegation, riding with a motorcade when then Mayor Daley shut down the highway—and then telling people about his daughter working at City Hall, carrying forward a legacy of service.
But I’ll also remember the little things. How he always carried cash, even when no one else did. How he tipped drivers in cash and lit up their day. How he noticed people, respected people, and carried himself with dignity—but also with humor and warmth.
What I will miss most is the everydayness of him. Picking up the phone. Laughing together. Talking about everything and nothing. He was my father, but also my friend. My safe place. My example of love, strength, and kindness. He would call and say he wanted to be with me for my birthday and I would be there.
My father loved his family—his daughters most of all. He loved my mother. He loved Liberia. He loved people.
And I loved him—not just as my father, but as the man he was.
When he was in the hospital, I wrote him a letter, which I will read now –
Dear Daddy: You were a great father, always. You dealt with trauma and expectations and you tried and always, and often succeeded in, showing up even at the last minute. You loved me and I wish I could have taken the burden off of you or eased your burden. Thank you for doing my homework with me. Thank you for helping me move into an apartment with 5 flights of stairs and I lived on the 5th floor.
Thank you for always believing in me.
Thank you for an extraordinary journey. I’m going to write that book. I might even get that MBA. I will live and I will honor you. I love you. You are irreplaceable. Thank you for everything.
I don’t know if you’re in there. I don’t know where you are. But I know if there is any piece of you that loves me 100%, and all of me loves you.
Love,
Moosh / Mayumi G
Daddy, I will carry your lessons, your laughter, and your love always. Like the meaning of Gye Nyame, which teaches us that God’s presence is eternal, I believe so is yours. Though I can no longer sit and talk with you, I know your spirit will never leave me. And every time someone looks at me and says, “That’s Grigsby’s daughter,” I will stand
proud.
Forever proud to be your daughter.
Thank you.
