A dear friend of mine recently lost her grandmother, bringing memories of my own grandmother to the fore. I lost her in 2012 at the age of 90. I was 25.
My grandma, Leonora, and I were kindred spirits, two peas in a pod. We preferred to watch old movies and sit quietly reading rather than working out in the yard with Grandpa and my sister. Leonora would let my sister and I give her “makeovers,” where we’d smear makeup all over her face with our tiny hands and ask Grandpa what he thought. He’d exclaim, “My beautiful petunia!”, and we’d know our work was done.
Grandmas are special. They aren’t our moms, but they give us so much care.
Not all of us are so lucky to have such a close relationship with our grandparents. Some of us never even get to meet them.
Though I never met my dad’s side of the family, I was lucky to not only know my maternal grandparents but to also live with them for the first two years of my life. They took us in, my single mom and her twin girls, and helped us all get on our feet, literally and figuratively.
WWLD
“What on earth are you doing?” I hear Leonora ask me from wherever it is that she resides now. I like to think, and also don’t like to think, that sometimes she is watching me, observing my life from afar. Is she proud of what I am doing, what I have done? Does she understand my choices perhaps more than I do myself? Does she want me to have children? Does she think that I am living a life of sin?
Some people wear bracelets inscribed with “WWJD?” Sometimes I wear an invisible talisman that asks, What would Leonora do?
My grandmother had a life much different from my own; times were different then. I know that she went to school and became a nurse, a noble profession, yet she did not practice for very long. She met my grandfather, fell in love, settled down, and had eight children (who gave her 14 grandkids and nine great-grandkids!). This kind of life is also noble. What could be more hopeful than engendering a new generation that could perhaps change the world?
My grandmother was a housewife, and she breathed creativity. Before she had children, she wrote stories. I know that she, even after they were born, created sculptures, played piano, knitted afghans. She was a voracious reader; I like to think that my love of the written word began with her. She encouraged her children to pursue artistic endeavors. At one time, nearly all of my mother’s siblings played an instrument; some of them still do. This legacy lives on.
One of my uncles is an actor, performing Shakespeare in the park. Another uncle, a now-retired kindergarten teacher, used to perform in a band called The Leopard Set, and would play guitar and make up songs for his students. Another uncle is an actor as well and teaches at a university in Massachusetts. Yet another uncle draws funny, intricate portraits. My aunt was a librarian at an elite high school in Los Angeles for nearly 30 years. My mother paints, sculpts, sews, and makes jewelry. Almost everyone in my family likes to sing; my grandfather sang in the church choir every week and one of my uncles does the same.
Though creativity was encouraged, my grandparents were also strict Catholics. All of their children attended the Catholic school a few blocks from their house in Torrance, and Sunday mass was nonnegotiable. Needless to say, the freedom of artistic expression, the endeavor to follow your passions, was sometimes in direct opposition with the family’s “traditional” Catholic beliefs.
My mother was not allowed to take a Black man to her prom. My aunt and uncle were, to put it mildly, misunderstood when they came out of the closet. My grandmother’s children definitely gave her a run for her money! Not only is one of my uncles gay, but he’s married to a younger Jewish man. Not only is my aunt a lesbian, but she’s married to an electrician. Not only did my mother have two children out of wedlock, but with a Black man. You can’t make this stuff up!
Perhaps my grandmother regretted instilling a free, creative life in her children. I’ll never know for sure, but I doubt it.
So, on the one hand, I believe that my grandmother is proud of me: after messing around for a long time, I went to college and received a Bachelor’s degree in English, one of her favorite subjects, and then went on to obtain a Master’s in Library and Information Science, following in my aunt’s footsteps. I am an observer like my grandmother was.
And, on the other hand, she might be a little overwhelmed or befuddled over some of my actions.
After exclusively dating men, I went on to marry the love of my life, a woman I had known for six months. (And we don’t want children.) I have lived a fast, wild life. I have committed quite a few sins. I have been seduced by the elusive allure of alcohol and cigarettes (though I’ve now been sober for nine years!). Though I was baptized Catholic, I have not been inside of a Catholic church since her funeral.
I wonder if my grandmother respects or understands that though I do not adhere to Catholic beliefs, I do believe in a power greater than myself. I wonder what she is thinking when I meditate or do yoga in my living room. I wonder if she was dismayed or delighted when I attended service at The Center for Spiritual Living with my seeker mom, where the sermon was given by a gay reverend and the accompanying music was performed via bongo drums, guitar, and sung by people wearing flowy, sparkly outfits. I wonder if she laughed, shaking her head, or smiled, happy that I was inside of a church, no matter what kind.
Though my grandmother was stubborn and set in her ways—which I absolutely get from her—she was also a lifelong learner and a world traveler. She and my grandfather bicycled around the country for their honeymoon, camping and fishing. They went to Africa, Europe, to countless other places I have yet to see.
My grandmother probably thinks that I should travel more. She probably wishes I would see some of the things that she has seen. I wish that I could tell her that I’m working on it.
She was a woman of many facets, a woman who had a secret life that I will unfortunately never know anything about. I wonder if she internally agreed with everything that she outwardly believed. This was a woman who attended church every Sunday but who also read steamy Harlequin romance novels at a breakneck pace, her legs crossed as she sat in her favorite chair, right foot swinging wildly as she read.
Would my grandmother have lived the same life she led if she was born in another time? I can picture her living in another country, a nurse as she was before, administering medicine to patients in a clinic. I can imagine her dancing in a street in the Caribbean to the sound of steel drums, face tilted upward toward the sky. I can see her lying down for the night in a tent, reading a book by the light of her lantern, bed swathed in mosquito netting. Who knows?
…
“What on earth are you doing?” she says from another realm. Is she saying it warmly, chuckling to herself? Is she saying it in a concerned tone, eyes wide? Is she content, seeing my future and what it holds for me? Does she want me to live with more abandon, or does she want me to rein it in a bit (probably a little)? Does she know where my path will lead, where I am headed?
…
I am young, perhaps six years old, and I am staying home from school. I am sick, truly ill and not faking it, as I sometimes did just so I could stay with her. We are watching an old movie on TV, and I am wrapped up in one of the multi-colored afghans she knitted. She has made me a milkshake, and I sip it slowly, savoring the sweetness as it slides down my throat. Though I feel terrible, I feel wonderful, comfortable and safe, tucked into our own little world. I don’t ever want to leave, don’t want the spell to be broken.
The Friday Finds
Action. Save the Prattville Library! “The Autauga-Prattville Alabama Library board has fired the library director for refusing to deny the public access to 113 books,” and when staff members protested the firing, they were fired as well (via EveryLibrary.org). Sign the petition and stand with Read Freely Alabama, the Prattville First Amendment Defense Group, and EveryLibrary to support the staff as they support Constitutional rights.
Listen. The day has arrived! Cowboy Carter, Beyoncé’s new album, is here! As she says, “This ain’t a Country album. This is a ‘Beyoncé’ album.” Born out of struggle, Beyoncé reclaims what is rightfully ours, and of course, slays while doing it. Imma need to listen a few more times before I pick another favorite track (after “TEXAS HOLD ‘EM,” of course)—let me know yours!
Watch. Hannah Mayree and SeeMore Love’s beautiful performance of Mayree’s song (a Find favorite!), “Home.”
Read. Thicker Than Water: A Memoir by Kerry Washington. A meditative, intimate, and beautiful memoir by one of our most enigmatic and talented actors. Washington is not only a transcendent actor, she is an astute writer, intellectual yet embodied, thoughtful and curious about the world and her place in it. A journey of self-discovery, healing, and ultimately, joy.
That’s it for this week—thank you for being here.
‘Til next time,
Emma
WWLD