When Delores Jordan stepped through the revolving door of The Velvet Room, time seemed to pause. The restaurant, a haven for Chicago’s elite, was a world of crystal chandeliers and hushed conversations. Delores, in her simple burgundy dress, worn purse, and polished shoes, felt every eye turn her way—not with welcome, but with the cold curiosity reserved for outsiders.
She walked with quiet dignity to the host stand. The maître d’, Richard, glanced at her with a porcelain smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He looked her up and down, lingering on her shoes, her purse, her skin. “Good evening,” Delores said, voice steady. “I have a reservation under Delores Jordan.”
Richard’s eyebrow arched. He typed on his tablet, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact. Behind him, a red-haired waitress bit her lip in discomfort. “Are you sure you’re at the right restaurant, madam?” Richard asked, his tone sharp.
Delores felt the sting of humiliation, but she stood tall. “Yes, my son made the reservation.” Richard pretended to check again, but Delores saw the game—she’d played it before, in cafes, on buses, in waiting rooms. The unspoken message was clear: You don’t belong.
“I’m sorry, madam. There must be a mistake. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable elsewhere,” Richard said, lowering his voice. A couple behind her was greeted with warmth and ushered in. Delores remained, refusing to move.
“I’ll wait. I’m sure my reservation is there,” she replied, her voice trembling but unyielding.
Amy, the red-haired waitress, sneaked a glass of water to Delores. “Don’t leave,” she whispered. “There’s something you need to know.” Richard’s glare sent Amy scurrying away, but Delores caught the compassion in her eyes.
Finally, Amy led Delores to a small table by the window. As Delores sat, the room returned to its laughter and clinking glasses, but she felt invisible—no menu, no service, no smiles. She watched as other guests were welcomed and pampered, while she waited, hands folded, heart pounding.
Minutes crawled by. Her hunger was dwarfed by her need for dignity. She remembered her mother’s words: “Never bow your head. Dignity is your shield.” So she sat, regal in her isolation, refusing to leave.
Eventually, Richard returned, not with the elegant leather-bound menu, but with a cheap pamphlet. “Here’s our budget menu,” he said, his contempt barely veiled. “Simple, affordable options.”
Delores looked him in the eye. “I’d like to see the main menu, please.”
Richard feigned surprise. “Our establishment serves a very selective clientele, Mrs. Jordan. Perhaps this isn’t what you’re looking for.”
Delores’ hands trembled, but her voice was steady. “My son insisted on this place. I’d like to try the best dish you have.”
Richard hesitated, then nodded. “As you wish, madam.” He left, leaving the cheap menu behind.
As Delores waited, she remembered the bakery from her childhood, the bus seats she wasn’t allowed to take, the jobs denied for reasons never spoken. She thought of Michael, her son, the boy she’d taught to never lower his head. “If they don’t want to see you,” she’d told him, “make them look.”
Amy returned, slipping the real menu onto the table. “Don’t give up,” she whispered. “Something’s happening in the kitchen.” Delores nodded, grateful for the small rebellion.
The hours dragged. Delores sat alone, ignored by the staff, watched by the patrons. She felt the old pain, the urge to disappear. But she stayed. She would not give them the satisfaction.
Her phone vibrated. Michael’s name lit up the screen. “Hi, Mom. Happy birthday! Are you feeling like a queen over there?” His voice was warm, strong.
Delores hesitated, not wanting to ruin his day. “Yes, darling. I’m fine,” she lied, her voice trembling.
“Are you sure?” Michael asked, concern growing.
Delores looked around the room, at the indifference, the disdain. “Today they made me remember the past, son,” she whispered. “But I’m not alone. You taught me never to stay silent.”
“Do you want me to come there?” Michael asked, his voice tight.
“No, darling. I just want respect. I want to celebrate my birthday without shame.”
As she hung up, Amy rushed over. “Ma’am, they’re planning something with your dish. Please be careful.” Delores nodded, her resolve hardening.
Soon, Richard returned, accompanied by the chef. They placed a burnt steak before her, no truffle sauce, no wine. The insult was clear. The room grew tense. Amy, unable to stay silent, announced, “This is not what she ordered!”
A murmur spread through the restaurant. Charles, a Black patron who’d watched everything, stood and began recording. “Do you think this will pass quietly?” he said. “It won’t.”
Other customers joined in, demanding respect for Delores. Mrs. Simmons, an elegant woman, stood and called out, “This is unacceptable!”
Delores stood, her voice ringing clear. “It’s not about the food. It’s about what you’re serving here—and what you’re denying.” She looked around, meeting every gaze. “Dignity is not a favor. It’s a right.”
A reporter burst in, cameras rolling. “Mrs. Jordan, can you tell us what happened?”
Delores lifted her chin. “I came for dinner. I was denied service, humiliated, and disrespected because of the color of my skin. I want respect—not just for me, but for everyone who’s ever been made to feel less.”
The story spread. The next day, Delores awoke to messages of support from across the country. Michael posted the video: “My mother taught me to never lower my head. Yesterday, she showed the world why.”
The Velvet Room apologized, changed policies, and invited Delores back as a guest of honor. Amy was promoted. Richard, humbled, apologized in front of everyone. Delores, standing onstage, said, “Dignity is the greatest treasure we have. Never let anyone take it from you.”
As she left, applause followed her out the door. Delores walked into the Chicago night, not just as Michael Jordan’s mother, but as a symbol of dignity that would never be denied again.
Michael Jordan Being Denied the MVP Award in 1981 Had Mother Deloris Jordan Fuming
Michael Jordan and his mother Deloris Jordan talk to the crowd outside of The Michael Jordan Family Medical Clinic led by Novant Health. Both were taking part in a ribbon cutting ceremony for the new clinic opening off of Greenfield Street Tuesday May 7, 2024 in Wilmington, N.C. KEN BLEVINS/STARNEWS
Even in the early stages of his career, before the fanfare and the acclaim, Michael Jordan had his mother, Deloris Jordan, in his corner. In 1981, he wasn’t a North Carolina Tar Heel, he wasn’t on the national radar and had in fact struggled to make his high school varsity team two years prior.
With the help of a timely growth spurt, and that undeniable Jordan determination, a young Mike averaged a near 27-point triple-double during his senior year at Laney High School, earning a spot on the McDonald’s All-American Team. When the All-American Boys Game took place on April 11, 1981, Jordan was paired with his future NBA competitors, Patrick Ewing and Chris Mullin.
The North Carolina native would look like the best of them though, erupting for 30 points on the night. It was the highest single-game point total recorded in the McDonald’s game at the time, but somehow it wouldn’t suffice to earn MJ the MVP award. Deloris, Mike’s fiercest proponent, was fuming after the result.
“No one was more furious than Deloris Jordan,” Roland Lazenby wrote in ‘Michael Jordan: The Life’. “She dropped her normal composure and let anyone within earshot know that her son had been robbed.”
The three judges — John Wooden, Sonny Hill, and Morgan Wootten — instead voted for Adrian Branch and Aubrey Sherrod, earning them the MVP honor in Wichita. It was understandably frustrating as Jordan had not only set a record on the night, he had sunk the game-winning free throws for the East.
“”She was very upset,” Howard Garfinkel recalled. “I just explained to her there’s only one list that counts, and that’s the night of the first pick of the NBA draft.””
Nonetheless, Deloris mouthing off at the judges at the Levitt Arena set the tone for Mike’s career. She would continue to play a pivotal role through the following years too.
Michael Jordan’s mother helped him become a billionaire
The 2023 film ‘Air’ highlighted just how important Mrs. Jordan was in the negotiation for MJ’s signature. Three years after the All-American MVP snub, Deloris found her son hesitant to hear out an up-and-coming shoe brand named Nike.
She forced Mike to hear out Sonny Vaccaro, the executive who was ready to gamble Nike’s entire basketball budget on the Tar Heels shooting guard. “My mother said, ‘You’re gonna go listen. You may not like it, but you’re gonna go listen,” the six-time champion revealed on ‘The Last Dance’.
He went and listened, but didn’t sign immediately. MJ gave Adidas an opportunity to counter Nike’s offer but after much contemplation, he would put pen to paper in Oregon.
Four decades later, that partnership has helped Mike become one of the 400 richest people in America. The ‘Jordan’ brand cracked the $7 billion mark in revenue this year, and with 5% of the royalties going to His Airness, he has earned $350 million in 2024; in large part, thanks to Deloris Jordan.
