Upon the death of a patriarch

I apologize for the topic of this post. It is such a struggle to decide what to say publicly when someone dies. I think that the way it “ought” to be dealt with is something that many people have strong feelings about, and yet there is no consensus. So in a selfish attempt to sort through my own head after the death of my Grandfather, on this the day we laid him to rest, I am making my thoughts public. I promise this won't be too sad, more a reflection; death is inevitable and dying at nearly ninety is something of an accomplishment. Not that we won't miss him, but there is much more to be celebrated than mourned. 

 My Grandfather was not an easy man: raised in depression, served in the Navy and worked on the railroad, he had gained the requisite tough exterior. I did not have an easy relationship with him as a young girl; I was eventually able to hold my own, but there were years I lived in terror of his acerbic tongue. To this day I think I have spilled more tears over his short temper and impatience than any other man or boy. Eventually I came to understand that he had his own burdens, that he loved us but didn't express it well. That, for most of my life he was either dealing with being the caregiver for my grandmother as she suffered from a terminal illness, or mourning her loss, was a difficult realization that shed some light on his temper. As I grew up I came to appreciate that he was stubborn, not only in his demands but also his love for family.

 I also came to view and appreciate my grandfather’s quiet streak of feminism. I don’t imagine that is a word that he would have been very comfortable using, and he certainly wasn’t radically progressive in the area, but it was pretty clear that he viewed my grandmother as a partner and that they raised their sons and daughter to raise strong women of their own. He was nonchalant about voting for a woman or going to female doctors. He was raised by a single mother after his father passed away, and I am sure watching that strength of will had a great influence on him. He never batted an eye when I decided to work on the hill or go to law school, and he was an equal opportunity interrupter.

 In his last days he asked for us all to come see him. He could be demanding, and we wondered if he was feeling bored, but, when we arrived, it was clear he was saying goodbye, taking his last moments to enjoy us all together. He had been sick for some time, and while we had joked that he was stubborn enough to live forever, I had accepted that his time was near. His last question to me was whether anyone actually read the books in our law library, which I could answer honestly that they did. I’ll think of that question any time I pull a reporter from the shelf, a small carried forward " I love you".

“Death is always on the way, but the fact that you don’t know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. It’s that terrible precision that we hate so much. But because we don’t know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that’s so deeply a part of your being that you can’t even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.” 

—Paul Bowles, The Sheltering Sky

My Grandfather had lost his front teeth to a horseshoe as a young man,
when my cousin and I lost our front teeth at the same time he tool the
opportunity to show off his inner first-grader. 

Little Women

It's been a tough week for my mom and with her my whole family. This news has really gotten me thinking about how important our relationship is. The more I think about it the more I realize the legacy of women in my life. My family is full of mythical women, not that they were not real but just that at some point their impact became bigger than themselves. Thinking back on the people and stories that shaped me it was almost always the women in my life. (With the obvious huge exception of my father.) 

One of the common tropes in our culture is how poorly women treat each other. There are more books about mean girls and cruel sorority sisters than anyone could read in a lifetime. Looking at the cultural artifacts of modern times you see instance after instance of women treating each other terribly, really all reality TV is women putting each other down for publicity. It makes me ill to watch for two reasons. The first, if women want to be held on an equal plain as men we need to take cues from them in how they treat one another, and it certainly isn't pulling one another down. I think it is so important for women to be there for each other, especially the young girls who are learning from us. The second, more personal reason, is I would like culture to reflect my experience, I was raised by a tribe of amazing women each of whom have blessed me with amazing gifts. I wish that this was more women's experience, and that it was what was expected of us. Of course if the standard we are held up to is cruel and degrading that will be what young girls learn, and the experience won't change.

There are so many women who have gotten me where I am: 

The grandmother who taught me that it was okay to be smart and that we each have struggles to deal with.

The grandmother who wished positivity for me and pushed me to be happy, who loved life and taught me to make a mean pie and showed me what it meant to love deeply. 

The aunt who nurtured my creative side. 

The aunt who let me know it was okay to want what I want. 

The aunt who is understanding and honest and has more answers about my crazy weird family than I could hope for.    

The nanny who became a sister and friend, a trusted confidant, with true perspective.

The cousin who always made me feel cool.

The cousin who was there as a big sister and fellow chocolate addict. 

The friend who forced me to have some fun in high school.

The friend whose steady friendship is fiercely dependable.

The friend who is much to understanding of how lazy I am, how much I love junk food and my love of inappropriate conversations. 

My sister who reminds me that there is so much light and beauty in the world, who is much too kind and the only other person on the planet who really gets my parents. 

Most importantly my mom, I try to remember how lucky I am to have such a wonderful relationship with my mom. Who lets me know it is okay to cry and that she is always on my side, a dependable safety net to use as I need. I don't know how she is able to keep the crazy mis-formed pieces of our family together, to create order in the chaotic universe of our lives. She is somehow always only a phone call away, and even more astonishing she can reach through the phone and span a continent with her words. I can't believe her kindness and generosity, the way she willingly sacrifices herself for the rest of us. I hope I don't forget how lucky I am and that I never have to try to fill her shoes.    

Love you mom

   

On a side note I did not want to title this post "Little Women," it was the first thing that came to my mind, but I immediately thought, no I can think of something better than that. So I racked my brain and searched online and you know what I discovered, there just aren't many books about women's relationships. I thought about Jane Austen, but really her books are about finding husbands in the company of your sisters. And then I thought of Amy Tan and Toni Morrison but those are as much about poverty and the minority experience, which really wasn't what I was going for either. (Plus neither have written a book that I would read of my own free will, sorry if that is literary blasphemy.)  According to fiction it seems that a measure of success for women (at least white privileged women) is never forming strong enough bonds with other women that you can't leave them behind. In most novels (even good ones) female protagonists are either finding men or hating their mothers (or both). I think that we can blame Disney and Shakespeare for this.