Sparked by a conversation with JJ, I've decided to write a little bit about my paternal grandmother. I believe I wrote to her for my letters project posts, but I thought that, since she's been on my mind, I'd take some time to blog about her.
Everyone generally considered my grandmother to be the person who single-handedly held our family together. I suppose this is true, when one examines the rifts in our relationships since her death. She was kind and generous, especially when it came to her grandchildren. She, like her sisters and husband, was a devout Catholic, and she took her Catholicism very seriously. I'm sure she was displeased that we were not being raised in the Catholic church, but, if she was, she never said anything that made us feel uncomfortable about it. She always made sure that we were cared for and had everything that we needed, from clothes to school supplies to snacks and toys.
I'm certain that she had her faults, like most people do, but I don't really remember them. I recall her fighting with my mother about various things over the years, but they never pulled us into their tiffs. I recall her vanity--she dyed her hair (roots, more or less, were the crux of the issue) black each week or two well past the age when flawless black would have been natural for her. She always had a signature hairstyle, and she wore signature scents as well--Imari by Avon for casual, Cinnabar by Estee Lauder for her special occasion scent. She always maintained her image by being polite to everyone, doing what was best and most socially acceptable. She was, as has gone by the wayside over the years, a true lady.
My grandmother was a lovely woman. She had a plethora of friends. She volunteered at her local nursing home. She loved her children and her husband. My grandmother gave me the lovely gift of many, many wonderful childhood memories. I may not have gotten much of her after she passed away, but I knew her and knowing her was a gift of its own.
One of the memories striking me with great force tonight is of when she was in the hospital, shortly before she died. My grandmother had been hospitalized for some time with Guillain-Barre Syndrome, and she died as a result of an embolism which migrated to her heart, which is a common complication of Guillain-Barre. Guillain-Barre has an element of paralysis to it, and since people who are paralyzed cannot use their extremities all that well, they are more likely to develop clots. Despite the blood thinners and exercises they were doing with her, she did develop a clot. The only positive thing that I can say about this is that we had seen her the day that she died, earlier that afternoon, and we had been able to tell her that we loved her. It was a minor blessing in the midst of a family tragedy.
Just before her death, I had gotten my first sort of punk notions about myself, and I had decided that it was totally imperative for me to have burgundy hair. My mother, after consulting a beautician friend of hers, reluctantly agreed, much to my father's later surprise. My father had declared that he liked it, but that he was sure that my grandmother, who was not so much a fan of odd colors of hair dye, would probably hate it. He assured me that I ought to prepare myself for a discussion of disapproval at the very least.
When we went to go see her, probably a day or so after my change of hair, I was nervous. When we walked in, she noticed my hair immediately. Much to the surprise of myself and my father, she declared that she loved my new hair style, and nothing negative was ever said about it. I remember the look on her face as she told me that she liked it, the light in her eyes. I think back to that day quite often, thinking of how her opinion on the matter could have made or broken the whole situation. Had she absolutely hated it, I'm sure I'd have been crushed.
As I am often wont to do, I think of her very much. I wonder what she would think of me as an adult, what she'd have thought of me at the worst of my teenage rebellion. Would my tattoos and piercings be met with chidings and scorn or would they have been as easily accepted as my burgundy hair was that afternoon in her hospital room? Would she approve of my major? Would I have waited so long to go back to school if she'd been around to advise me, guide me? Most of all, would she be proud of the woman that I've become or would she find me sassy and uncouth? Would she appreciate my honesty and candor or would she consider me impolite and assuming?
As I age, I try to honor my grandmother's memory in small ways, the ways that I can manage. Though I will never be as patient or as kind as she was, I do try to at least emulate some of her behaviors. She used to make Kifli, a Germanic/Polish/Hungarian pastry, every year for Christmas, even giving some as gifts to people (such as priests at her church and whatnot). I have attempted to take over her role as the family Kifli-maker. This year is the first year since I've mastered the art that we simply haven't had the money to buy the ingredients to make them--these are not a cheap pastry, I have discovered. Even dying my hair black now is done with a nod of deference to her, though I do occasionally add streaks of colors that she might have liked much less. It makes me think of her and how she always wanted to be perfectly coiffed.
My grandmother played a huge role in shaping who I have become. She continues to shape me to this day. Even though it gets harder to remember her, harder to remember the small details, there will always be important memories that stick out to me. She will always be the woman who taught me how to make Kifli in her kitchen during the chill of December, the woman who let me play in her jewelry boxes when I was just a little girl, the woman who made her basement and patio two of my most favored locations as a child. She will always be the woman who went out of her way at all times to make sure that my brothers and I felt absolutely, totally, and completely loved. There is not a single thing in this whole world, not even death, that could ever take that away from us.
Showing posts with label my grandmother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label my grandmother. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Nuns, Potatoes, and Body Image: The Musical! (Not really, but I'd so see that musical)
Tonight, while meditating on life in general as I enjoyed a nightly cigarette, a memory came whooshing back into my mind with a fervor that could not be ignored. Of course, I feel the need to blog about it for two reasons. One, I feel like it was significant, and I have something to say about it. Two, my blog has been frightfully neglected lately, and I like to jump at a chance to write something that may have some small amount of substance.
When I was a young girl, my grandmother had a relative who was a nun. I'm not sure about the specifics, like what order she was in or what have you because my father had converted to the Baptist faith after marrying my mother. We never really learned much about the Catholic faith, needless to say, other than the easy things like how to say the Hail Marys of the rosary for funerals. To be candid, I don't even recall her name.
This particular nun found quite a bit of favor with my grandmother and her two sisters. They were all devout Catholics. They volunteered regularly at their local parish and attended services very regularly. In the event that they could not attend mass, they watched the mass which was broadcast on local television. Because of their devotion to their faith, they often had the sister over for dinner.
I remember one particular dinner. I must have been around eight years old, I imagine. I was old enough to know I'd been insulted, to be hurt, without being so old that I had the guts to say anything back. My grandmother had made some sort of meat, of course, but the best part of the meal were the roasted potatoes that she made (mostly because, like all delicious and terrible for you foods, they were DROWNED in butter). My grandmother's potatoes were wonderful. We all loved them, and they always went quickly. I must have been eating them with particular vigor, however, because I recall the sister looking at me and saying, "You like those potatoes, don't you?"
Of course, trying to be polite, I nodded and replied, "Yes." Mostly, my responses to the sister were monosyllabic because she was older and made me uncomfortable, as all old people did when I was young.
Her answer to my reply shocked me into submission. With all the cruelty she could muster, she said, "That's why you're fat."
To be perfectly honest, I have been fat basically all my life. You can chalk it up to whatever you want. I'm working out, I'm eating much more healthily, I've reduced portion sizes. I'm still fat. I'm probably always going to be fat. I know this. What perplexes me is not that she pointed out that I was fat. Let's be honest, everyone with eyes knows that I'm fat. Why cover what you can't hide? What perplexes me is why she would so cruelly point it out in front of other people when I was but a child.
Now, I could launch into a tirade about how inappropriate it is to say that to a child. I could mention that nuns are supposed to live their lives as manifestations of God's love on Earth. Neither of these things are the centrality of why my memory struck me as so terribly important. I'd been called fat in school before. This, however, was the first time that I'd been confronted as being undesirable for being fat by someone who was related to me. It was the first time a relative made me feel terrible for my body.
Don't get me wrong, family has made me feel terrible for personal choices or what-have-you many times since then. Feeling terrible has not been in short supply in my life. Yet, this was the first time that I'd been made to feel terrible about my body, the very beginning of all my real struggles with body image. I've hated my body for so long. I've never embraced my body. I always think, "If only this were smaller," or "If only those were bigger," or "If only I wasn't so fat!" All my life, I've always thought that I'd be more desirable, more lovable if only I were just a little less fat.
Here's the problem: being less fat won't make me less of a bitch. It won't mean that I'll suddenly start to trust people. It won't make me stop pushing people away when they say things I disagree with. Being less fat won't mean that I'll be nice to people. Being less fat won't make me stop saying terrible things to anyone that gives me a sideways glance or mistakenly finds themselves on my bad side. Turning into a skinny, gorgeous little thing won't turn me into Mother Theresa. It probably won't make me happy. It certainly won't provide me with the direction that my life is lacking.
The most important part of the memory is the part that I almost always forget. I get so wrapped up in the cruel words of the sister I forget the really important part of what happened that night: the look of abject horror and shock on my grandmother's face. I always forget that, after the sister left for the evening, my grandmother and her two sisters, my great aunts, sat at that table and told me how wrong she was. I forget the huddle of glorious, loving, motherly women who tried to tell me how much they loved me by telling me how beautiful I was. I forget how offended my mother was when they related the story to her, how she reacted in agreeance with what my grandmother and great aunts were telling me at that table. That's the part of that memory that counts.
People will always be ready to strike you at the core of the most obvious faults you bring. Fat. Skinny. Pimples. Whatever it is, they'll always be ready to call you out to make themselves feel better by making you feel worse. The important thing is the support that we get from the people who really love us. Personally, I just hope that all the little fat girls out there who have their feelings hurt by other people trying to tear them down, whose body image issues will begin at a young age and continue to be a terrible struggle, have a gaggle of loving women ready to tell them how wrong those other people were. I hope that, like my grandmother, someone will react as though they themselves had been personally insulted. I hope those little fat girls have the kind of love that I did because that's what really counts.
Body image continues to be a struggle for me. I'm going to try a lot harder to believe it when people tell me that I look good. I'm going to try to believe it when people tell me that I'm pretty or that I have sex appeal, even if I can't see it in myself. Just do me a favor: if you ever see someone that doesn't believe the compliments they're getting, smack them upside the head for me. Sometimes, we need it.
When I was a young girl, my grandmother had a relative who was a nun. I'm not sure about the specifics, like what order she was in or what have you because my father had converted to the Baptist faith after marrying my mother. We never really learned much about the Catholic faith, needless to say, other than the easy things like how to say the Hail Marys of the rosary for funerals. To be candid, I don't even recall her name.
This particular nun found quite a bit of favor with my grandmother and her two sisters. They were all devout Catholics. They volunteered regularly at their local parish and attended services very regularly. In the event that they could not attend mass, they watched the mass which was broadcast on local television. Because of their devotion to their faith, they often had the sister over for dinner.
I remember one particular dinner. I must have been around eight years old, I imagine. I was old enough to know I'd been insulted, to be hurt, without being so old that I had the guts to say anything back. My grandmother had made some sort of meat, of course, but the best part of the meal were the roasted potatoes that she made (mostly because, like all delicious and terrible for you foods, they were DROWNED in butter). My grandmother's potatoes were wonderful. We all loved them, and they always went quickly. I must have been eating them with particular vigor, however, because I recall the sister looking at me and saying, "You like those potatoes, don't you?"
Of course, trying to be polite, I nodded and replied, "Yes." Mostly, my responses to the sister were monosyllabic because she was older and made me uncomfortable, as all old people did when I was young.
Her answer to my reply shocked me into submission. With all the cruelty she could muster, she said, "That's why you're fat."
To be perfectly honest, I have been fat basically all my life. You can chalk it up to whatever you want. I'm working out, I'm eating much more healthily, I've reduced portion sizes. I'm still fat. I'm probably always going to be fat. I know this. What perplexes me is not that she pointed out that I was fat. Let's be honest, everyone with eyes knows that I'm fat. Why cover what you can't hide? What perplexes me is why she would so cruelly point it out in front of other people when I was but a child.
Now, I could launch into a tirade about how inappropriate it is to say that to a child. I could mention that nuns are supposed to live their lives as manifestations of God's love on Earth. Neither of these things are the centrality of why my memory struck me as so terribly important. I'd been called fat in school before. This, however, was the first time that I'd been confronted as being undesirable for being fat by someone who was related to me. It was the first time a relative made me feel terrible for my body.
Don't get me wrong, family has made me feel terrible for personal choices or what-have-you many times since then. Feeling terrible has not been in short supply in my life. Yet, this was the first time that I'd been made to feel terrible about my body, the very beginning of all my real struggles with body image. I've hated my body for so long. I've never embraced my body. I always think, "If only this were smaller," or "If only those were bigger," or "If only I wasn't so fat!" All my life, I've always thought that I'd be more desirable, more lovable if only I were just a little less fat.
Here's the problem: being less fat won't make me less of a bitch. It won't mean that I'll suddenly start to trust people. It won't make me stop pushing people away when they say things I disagree with. Being less fat won't mean that I'll be nice to people. Being less fat won't make me stop saying terrible things to anyone that gives me a sideways glance or mistakenly finds themselves on my bad side. Turning into a skinny, gorgeous little thing won't turn me into Mother Theresa. It probably won't make me happy. It certainly won't provide me with the direction that my life is lacking.
The most important part of the memory is the part that I almost always forget. I get so wrapped up in the cruel words of the sister I forget the really important part of what happened that night: the look of abject horror and shock on my grandmother's face. I always forget that, after the sister left for the evening, my grandmother and her two sisters, my great aunts, sat at that table and told me how wrong she was. I forget the huddle of glorious, loving, motherly women who tried to tell me how much they loved me by telling me how beautiful I was. I forget how offended my mother was when they related the story to her, how she reacted in agreeance with what my grandmother and great aunts were telling me at that table. That's the part of that memory that counts.
People will always be ready to strike you at the core of the most obvious faults you bring. Fat. Skinny. Pimples. Whatever it is, they'll always be ready to call you out to make themselves feel better by making you feel worse. The important thing is the support that we get from the people who really love us. Personally, I just hope that all the little fat girls out there who have their feelings hurt by other people trying to tear them down, whose body image issues will begin at a young age and continue to be a terrible struggle, have a gaggle of loving women ready to tell them how wrong those other people were. I hope that, like my grandmother, someone will react as though they themselves had been personally insulted. I hope those little fat girls have the kind of love that I did because that's what really counts.
Body image continues to be a struggle for me. I'm going to try a lot harder to believe it when people tell me that I look good. I'm going to try to believe it when people tell me that I'm pretty or that I have sex appeal, even if I can't see it in myself. Just do me a favor: if you ever see someone that doesn't believe the compliments they're getting, smack them upside the head for me. Sometimes, we need it.
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