Through Mom's Eyes: Simple Wisdom From Mothers Who Raised Extraordinary Humans by Sheinelle Jones - 5

You Gotta Be Happy About Who You Are, Embrace It, and Don’t Be Afraid

Oracene Price, Venus and Serena Williams’s mom

In August 2022, when Serena Williams announced her retirement from tennis with a cover story in Vogue , she didn’t open with a short list of highlights from her spectacular career or a confession about how she really felt exiting the sport that had dominated her life. Instead, she shared a sweet little story about running errands in the car one day with her daughter, Olympia, who was then almost five. As Serena tells it, Olympia was entertaining herself with an interactive app on her mother’s phone. When the app asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, the little girl whispered, “I want to be a big sister.” Serena pretended not to listen, but she clearly heard. One year later, Adira Ohanian was born and Olympia’s dream came true.

If anybody knows how powerful sisterhood can be, it’s Serena, who is the youngest of five girls and the mighty mini-me to fellow tennis champion/big sister Venus. Both women are historymakers, having racked up headline-grabbing trophies and cash while even, at times, competing against each other. Trailblazer Venus played a pivotal role in advocating for equal pay in tennis, regardless of gender, scoring historic victories (such as Wimbledon’s 2007 move to equalize prize money) that have been financial game changers for women players. This includes Serena who, in 2017, was the only woman on the Forbes list of the one hundred highest-paid athletes. But what these two siblings have done as a proud and indomitable pair—literally changing the face, feel, and fan base of the sport—places them in a class all by themselves.

They have not only ranked among the best players of their time, they are among the best of all time. And their bond, displayed on the world stage for more than two decades, is as legendary and audacious as their level of play. Giving profound new meaning to the notion of “doubles,” their mutual respect and affection for one another is unmissable to anyone watching, including little Alexis Olympia Ohanian Jr., who clearly took note early.

At last check around 23.6 million people in the United States play tennis, and that number continues to grow worldwide. When you consider how much competition there is, even at the junior level, you realize how tough it is to excel. The fact that Venus and Serena Williams didn’t just do well, they dominated in the sport for decades, defied all the odds.

While their father, Richard, is well known for his role as their fierce first coach, their mother, Oracene Price, has always been the backbone of the family. Devout in her faith, devoted to her family, and uninterested in fame, she has always, unapologetically, been “mom” first.

Oracene was born the exact same year as my own mother, in 1952; they’re only three months apart and I’m just a couple of years older than Venus. Our two generations grew up at similar times, but in very different circumstances. Oracene was born in Saginaw, Michigan. Her father was an automotive worker from the Mississippi Delta. She became a nurse and had three daughters with her first husband, who died in 1979. She then married Richard Williams (who also had other children) and, together, they had Venus and Serena.

There is no question that Richard devoted much of his life to his youngest daughters, quitting his job and relocating their family from Compton, California, to West Palm Beach, Florida, with a singular goal: to coach the girls to win at the game of tennis, and in life. It is less known that Oracene taught herself the game, practiced every day for a year, and learned all she could in order to be a full partner with her then-husband in supporting their daughters’ dream. She also continued to work, financially supporting their family of seven on her own for a time.

As soon as I meet Oracene, I can tell she’s a no-nonsense, tough cookie, and I suspect it was that clarity and firmness that helped hold all five of her daughters together. She tells me that the bond between the two youngest girls in the house always stood out.

“One time, they were trying to have a little argument and they came to me,” Oracene remembers. “I said, ‘When you get to be adults you’re going to have to solve your own problems and I’m not gonna be in between, saying who’s right. You’re not puttin’ me in the middle.’ ” After that, she says, Venus and Serena rarely argued. “It’s not like they don’t disagree with each other,” their mom says, “but they agree to disagree.”

Over the years, the press has sometimes cast Venus and Serena’s closeness as unnatural, but to their mother it’s the most natural thing in the world. “We always love each other,” she says of their tight-knit nuclear family. “And even if we’re mad at each other, we help each other. It’s not like, ‘You go your way and I go mine.’ That’s just not in our family dynamics.”

Oracene recalls that, growing up, Serena was quiet, always looking up to her older sisters. “Serena did everything that Venus did, no matter what it was.” Venus was the more boisterous and talkative one back then. Oracene watched that gradually reverse as they got older, but she jokes that, to this day, Venus is the protective big sister and Serena still fully leverages her role as the baby. “Me, me, me…You’re supposed to take care of me,” Oracene says, poking fun at her baby girl. “I call it the ‘youngest-child syndrome.’ ”

You often hear mothers talk about how much their children mirror or stray from the birth-order profiles textbooks describe. Birth order was a funny thing in my family. As my parents divorced and remarried, I went from being an only child to suddenly having older siblings to then becoming a big sister to my younger brother. Blending a family isn’t easy, but I’m a big believer in siblings having a closeness that ultimately makes them lifelong allies. I believe in this so much, my own kids are sick of hearing about it. Ever since they were toddlers, I’ve made them stand in a circle from time to time and put one arm in, hokeypokey-style, piling hands in the center. “On the count of three,” I’ll cheer, “everybody say, ‘GO TEAM!’ ” Then we break, like we’re about to play a pro basketball game. When they were little, they giggled with excitement. Now, not so much. But my point remains—and my kids know I couldn’t be more serious about it. I often tell them, “You may bicker at home, that comes with the territory. Out in the real world, though, I want you to have each other’s backs one hundred percent. Always!” (Now, if you happen to see my kids bickering at a New York City bodega one day, I apologize. We’re a work in progress…)

The Williams family’s early years have been well documented, including famously on the big screen in the 2021 Oscar-nominated movie King Richard . Oracene, whose twenty-two-year marriage to Richard ended in 2002, reflects quietly on those days. “We would wake up at 5:30 in the morning [when] they were going to school. Then we would come home, and then it’s practice.” She would cook one of her go-to meals, like chicken, rice, and gravy—Serena’s favorite. After dinner, as devout Jehovah’s Witnesses, it was often off to meetings at the Kingdom Hall. “It was a lot,” Oracene says, echoing the blunt conclusion of virtually every mom I have ever interviewed about what it’s like raising young children. “It was nonstop.”

I ask her, “Do you miss those times?”

“No.” I mean, she said no before I could even finish my question! We both laugh. But to punctuate her point, she says, “I taught my kids to grow up and be self-sufficient and not to come back to me.” My ears perk up. This is not something you hear every mother say. In fact, I’ve heard many moms say the opposite—they dread the day when their kids will leave, never want them to venture too far, long for the days when they were in the thick of motherhood. Not Oracene.

The family decided to leave Compton seeking better coaching for Venus and Serena, and also seeking more safety. She minces no words, describing their West Coast neighborhood as “really bad. Before they went out to practice, I would always tell them, if you hear anything, duck. Hit the ground. That was the standard rule.”

On the opposite coast, in West Palm Beach, Florida, the dangers were different and invisible to most, but not to Oracene. Their home was a safe place, crackling with games, laughter, prayer, studies, and the entertaining sibling dynamics that come with five girls ranging in age. But once Venus and Serena stepped on the tennis court, they would feel the energy change.

In their predominantly white, traditionally elitist sport (it’s more diverse today, thanks largely to their influence), the sisters endured isolation and jealousy, ignorant and racist comments, microaggressions, and, at times, actual aggression from those who didn’t want to see them win—or even have them play. Although it had been forty years since Althea Gibson broke the color barrier in professional women’s tennis, the environment the Williams sisters first competed in hadn’t changed much. On so many levels, this had to be extremely painful to witness as their mother, but Oracene stayed laser focused on her girls and nothing else. She also found the words to ease her daughters’ hurt and to reinforce their self-esteem and discipline.

“I always told them, you have to know who you are,” says Oracene. “No one defines you, but you. And you let no one else do that…Have your own mind, your own thoughts, and make sure what you’re doing is right in how you treat people.” These are the simple, solid values I was raised on, the very same ones I’m trying to impart to my own children. But, in today’s world, it can sometimes feel like swimming against the tide. So, Oracene’s message hits home. Consistent and unflappable, she didn’t just teach her children how to stay true to their beliefs; she modeled for them how to stay above the fray. This is especially impressive since, when our kids are mistreated, a lot of us mama bears want to fight back—at least with our words.

“You have to be courteous, you have to be kind,” Oracene calmly insists. “That’s part of strength. It’s easy to go jump and just be belligerent. It’s very difficult to be kind to someone that is not kind to you.” This is not a conventional viewpoint, especially in today’s quick-to-pounce culture. But note to self and all you mama bears out there, Oracene’s approach worked.

As the accolades for Venus and Serena started rolling in, Oracene doubled down on instilling the need for them to stay loyal to each other. “In the world that they were in, people would try to separate them and say well, ‘This one said this.’ And I’d say, ‘If anything like that happens, you go to each other and talk about it, and then you can get the real scoop.’ ”

With two young athletes of my own at home, in addition to wanting advice on handling sibling rivalry, I’m always curious about the right balance of parenting, versus coaching. My boys have played soccer since they were able to kick a ball and, over the years, I’ve always squirmed when I see parents fussing at their kids on the sidelines, or even after the game is over, still “coaching.” In a world of families trying to cultivate the next Tiger or Gronk or Lebron—or Simone or Venus or Serena—you have to feel for young athletes for whom the practicing and critiquing and pressure never seem to stop.

“You don’t just break them down and make them feel like they’re nothing,” Oracene says. “I think some people or parents may do that.” She also saw to it that her girls got regular breaks, which, she says, all children need. “When they come home, let it be a place where it’s just family, and leave all the other stuff. When you coach, coach on the court.” Above all, she says, when they’re young, “Let them be kids. Let them play.”

Oracene recognized early that her youngest daughters were gifted and passionate athletes, but she insisted that they remember that tennis was something they did—it wasn’t who they were. Natural gifts require great care, which sometimes means restraint. “Whatever they do well, don’t mess with it,” Oracene counsels. “Don’t try to perfect it. They’ll perfect it for themselves. You have to let the person be who they are, and they gradually grow up, build character, get stronger, and then they can define themselves.”

The cameras often zoom in on Oracene during high-profile matches, but she’s like a pro poker player—with or without her big sunglasses, she almost never shows her cards. She says that stoicism is intentional, honed over years of watching other parents fuss and squirm in the stands while their kids were on the court, a trait she does not admire.

Unintentionally, her demeanor has created a kind of mystique. Sports reporters never stopped trying to openly guess at her thoughts, which, she says, aren’t that deep. “I’m watching the [girls’] technique mostly,” she says. “But, before they get on the court, I’m watching for mental aspects. I see a lot of people go out there and they’re not mentally there, but it’s so important. You have to believe that you can do something before you can do it.”

There it is again: the “coach” in her that Venus and Serena have talked about. And it’s clear to me that she is more than a tennis coach, she’s a life coach.

“A lot of people say, ‘I’m gonna win.’ It’s not whether you’re gonna win, it’s—you’re not losing,” Oracene says. “It’s a different mentality. Once you’re not losing, and you know what it takes in your whole being, no one is gonna beat you that day.”

Yet in every sport there will be losses, and Venus and Serena have faced some really tough ones—on and off the court. Where many parents want to jump in and fix things for their kids, Oracene gives hers space. “You have to stay quiet,” she says. “Don’t tell them what they should’ve done or what they shouldn’t, that’ll drive them crazy. You have to leave it alone.”

In 2003, life dealt Oracene and her family a devastating blow when her oldest daughter, Yetunde, a mother of three herself, was killed in a random drive-by shooting in Compton. In 2016, the family opened the Yetunde Price Resource Center, a community center in Compton for victims of violence and their families. Its tagline reads: “Committed to helping others heal.” Healing is something Oracene understands, but there’s nothing like losing a child—or, for that matter, a sister.

When I step back and think about my own life, I’ve had my sisters by my side through some of the happiest moments, and the worst. We’ve shared the deepest laughs—the ones that come straight from your soul where you stop, look at each other, and crack up all over again—and most heart-wrenching cries. Your sister may not be able to change your circumstance, but she’ll be right by your side to walk through the storm with you.

The older and busier I get, the more challenging it becomes to maintain connections with not only my biological sisters, but the women I think of as sisters. Most of them live in other parts of the country and have their own busy lives. We’re still close, but without the time for long chats or regular visits, it’s different. Luckily, some of the women I work with on The Today Show have stepped in to fill that void and I clearly remember when it really hit me that they had.

The day after my forty-fourth birthday, I got the call that my maternal grandfather had passed. Everyone who knows me, knows how close I’ve always been to my grandparents. Grandpapa was ninety-seven years old, and he lived a long and deeply meaningful life as a physician. He was a general practitioner, which in Wichita back then meant he delivered the baby, was that child’s pediatrician, and was probably their parents’ doctor too. He was adored by the thousands of patients he cared for during his career—still making house calls decades after he’d officially retired—and he was Grandmama’s rock for more than sixty years. He had been the patriarch of our family, and I mean that in the very best, most reverent sense.

When we lost him, I lost the man who had been the constant, quiet, steady force in my life, all my life. He had been there for every change, every triumph, every disappointment, every moment of fear or doubt. In 2008, after I miscarried in my first pregnancy and fell into a despair I had never felt before, my grandfather called me from Wichita every single day until he felt like he heard the “spark” in my voice again. Sometimes he wouldn’t say a word, we would just sit there, in different time zones and miles apart, but together.

After he passed, I found myself back in that dark, muddy sea of grief, alone. I desperately needed him to call me, to sit with me and symbolically hold my hand, and now he never would again. But the very first person who did call was Hoda.

Hoda Kotb, and she did exactly what my grandfather had done all of those years before. She just sat on the phone with me and let me sob. Over the next few hours, I heard from all of my sisters on the show, and they each met me in my place of need, in their own way. Jenna, especially, got it. Although her late grandfather George H. W. Bush was the forty-first president of the United States, to her, he had always been just her grandpa. Having been close to him, just as I was to my grandfather, she knew the indescribable pain I felt. Her words to me on our call were exactly what I needed to start to heal my broken heart.

It has been said that as women, sisterhood is our superpower. A few years ago, I produced a documentary on infertility that brought that message home. My one miscarriage rocked me, but I went on to have my oldest son a year later, and then twins a few years after that. So I had the good fortune not to struggle with infertility, but I had many brave friends who did. Their strength was remarkable. I watched these ladies still go to work, host dinner parties, and even baby showers for their friends. They did their best to move forward with their lives, while carrying this painful secret and enduring countless doctor visits, hormone injections, egg freezing, and pregnancy testing. All of it was incredibly difficult and heartbreakingly hopeful at the same time. As a sister to these women, I felt helpless.

Documenting their stories and raising awareness about what so many couples endure was my way of being “my sisters’ keeper.” Together with my closest friends, including my sister-in-law, we produced a powerful and moving film that we are proud of—and making it made us closer. Seeing women go down every possible avenue in pursuit of their dream of parenting also underscored the fact that families and sisterhoods aren’t dependent on shared DNA, they’re made of love.

Venus and Serena have heeded their mother’s advice to never take their sisterhood for granted. They also heard her above the roar of the tennis crowd when she stressed to them that their lives off the court also matter, and that they must think about their impact beyond tennis.

“I keep things in perspective, you know?” Oracene says. “Because to me, humility is very important. ’Cause without it, you can fall. I’ve seen that too.” Venus and Serena have been intentional about developing other pursuits, from fashion lines and interior design to tech investing and opening two schools in Africa. Oracene takes pride in all of their endeavors, grateful that they feel good about themselves and each other. “Kids have to have freedom, and they gotta be able to express themselves,” she says.

Following the birth of her first child in 2017, Serena posted a letter to her mom on Instagram, thanking her for giving her the self-confidence to accept herself when she stood out among the rest. She ends by saying: “Thank you for being the role model I needed to endure the hardships that I now regard as challenges, ones that I enjoy…I’m not sure if I am as meek and strong as you are yet. I hope to get there one day…”

“I think I had a little tear for that one,” Oracene says, smiling. Whether it’s a little handmade card your first grader gives you with pride on your birthday or a grand public pronouncement like Serena’s, those moments when our children affirm for us that our impact was positive and our sacrifices were worth it, are what we moms live for. “One year, Venus came to me and she said, “ ‘Mom, I love my life.’ Sometimes, you wonder if you’re doing the right thing. The next year, Serena came to me and said the same words. So, that was a big relief.”

Because of my early hours on Today , I often go to bed before my kids do. One night, as I was fighting to fall asleep, my boys were upstairs just exploding in laughter. Their room is right above mine, and I could hear them jumping around in their bunk beds. The morning cohost in me needed to quiet them down so I could sleep, but the mom in me loved it. Some of my favorite memories as a small child are of playing around with one of my sisters on our bunk beds when we were supposed to be napping. We would turn our bedposts into imaginary microphones and belt out songs like Whitney Houston’s backup singers. When we heard my stepdad coming, we would dive onto our pillows and pretend to be sleeping. I’m sure we thought we were fooling him! It was so silly—and special. So, today, if I have to put my pillow over my head and ignore a few squeals of glee from time to time, I gladly will. (And if my eyes look a little baggy some mornings, now you know why.)

The night Serena Williams played the last match of her iconic career, she tearfully thanked her big sister Venus, telling reporters, “I wouldn’t be Serena if there wasn’t Venus, so thank you, Venus. She’s the only reason that Serena Williams ever existed.” And, of course, Serena also thanked her mom, who sat calmly by, watching every moment.

I have the good fortune of being the son of a social worker. With her words and her example, my mother taught me to see the humanity in every person. She always has expected of us kindness, empathy, and charity where it might help. Everyone we encounter has a long, complicated story that made that person standing before us. We should listen to it, and respect it. My mom taught me that.

—Willie Geist, host, Sunday Today