As many of you know, my grandmother passed away late Friday evening. The news, while sad, was in no way a shock. I'm actually happy, she didn't really suffer and she never had to live with any real mental ailments. Short term memory wasn't always her strong suit, but damn could she remember the good old days. To start telling her tales would be a lengthy endeavor. I'll leave that to my father, who is not only 100 times the writer I'll ever be. As we've discussed in the past, he now has his final chapter.
At exactly one hundred years and one month, one could take infinite amount of wisdom from her. I could take away her love of life That each day be cherished, but never to the point where we raise expectations about reality. For my grandmother, a perfect day would be a nice breakfast with hot coffee. Hope into her sun clothes and head to the beach. A full day soaking up too many rays, while bronzing her skin to look "beautiful." Back to the house at four in the afternoon for cocktails, of which there would be many and dinner with friends or family. My grandmother's life was all about enjoying the little things in life. A Jelly Roll Morton song, a beautiful painting or a long walk down a tree lined path. Listening to the ocean crash into the beach, sips of cold scotch and laughing with friends. My grandmother lived her 100th year the same as she did her 20th. With no expectations other than, the alternative is worse. She loved life and was tormented in her later years by her physical restraints. Thankfully, her mind, which depending on who you speak to was warped from the start, stayed sharp. I could talk about a lot of things, but I will discuss one thing that changed the way I looked at her and brought me closer to understanding, not only her, but people. Now this story will start off in a way that doesn't seem very complimentary, but it taught me a valuable lesson, so please be patient.
About eight years ago, my grandmother was in the hospital. This in itself was rare, because she was very healthy, but if I remember correctly, she had broken her clavicle. At 92 she came back from this injury in half the time someone one third her age was expected to. She was speaking to some family and mentioned her great grandfather, William Poulson. An elderly black man stopped by the door and said "Excuse me, I couldn't help but overhear you mention William Poulson. May I ask, was he from Virginia (The man was specific to the area, but I myself forget it)? My grandmother paused, as did everyone else and she confirmed. The man paused, "Said, my name is William Poulson, as was my father, his father and my great grandfather and my great grandfather was from the same town in Virginia." He then tipped his hat and said "It's a pleasure to meet you. Good day."
As my grandmother tells the story, there was a few moments of silence and some confusion from her hospital guests. My grandmother collected her thoughts and explained to everyone that the man shared the name, which had been carried down and was from the same place. Still, with confusion on the faces of her guests, she explained "My great grandfather owned his great grandfather. Slaves very often took the names of their masters back then and the family name stuck."
To understand the impact of the story, you must understand that my grandmother was taught racism. My grandmother never truly hated anyone, but was taught to hate blacks. Anyone who has ever been to Philadelphia, where she lived most of her life, knows that the race issue there makes it seem like the 50's and 60's. The city as a whole has not evolved the way much of the country has and the racism is quite open. Sadly, a good part of my grandmother's family still feels that way. It was a bone of contention when I was growing up, because my grandmother would use the "N" word as if it was as innocent as saying someone was tall. She did so, because it was ingrained in her. Since that day in the hospital, I don't remember he saying it more than two or three times, each time, correcting herself, explaining "we don't use that word anymore."
My grandmother has always confused my view of prejudice. She would make racial slurs, yet praised the Philadelphia Eagles' quarterback Randall Cunningham and talk of how handsome he was. Same with all black athletes who helped her team win. She also had a love for jazz that was unparalleled and constantly explained to me that Fats Waller and Jelly Roll Morton were the best. It always confused me that someone with such admiration for these people could still be racist. The reality was, she wasn't. Her family was and that is what they expected out of her and it was taught.
Last September, she and I sat on a porch and listened to a neighbors rap band. The neighbor was white and all the members of his band were white. She confirmed that she liked the lively music and asked what kind it was. I explained it was rap and also tried to goad her a bit, by explaining it was more popular in urban and black culture. She said, "Well, they have always been ahead of us in music and that's why Elvis and whites from that the 50's era stole all their music." I laughed and told her she'd get my "Italian, Irish and German friends, pretty mad with that kind of talk." She explained that if they didn't know that, then they didn't know history. I laughed again and had to continue my goading. I asked her what she thought about Obama. She said "I didn't think I'd see it in my life, but he's been OK. I don't like the other guy, because he's a flat out liar. He's never done anything positive for this country aside from something I read about the Olympics. Plus, all his good ideas Obama's already done. Obama's more like everyone else than the other guy." I asked her if she had a problem that he was black. She said, "what difference does it make to me. I have had nurses who were black and they take care of me just as well as the white nurses, so why should I care what they look like?"
During her 100th birthday party, there were 44 people present. One was black. She turned to me and said "Oh there is my friend. He's the best dressed man in Ithaca." The gentleman came over and gave my grandmother a kiss. It was something I never thought I'd see as a child. It took 92 years for her to change her mind and in her last eight she accepted everyone who was genuinely good. I am a cynic myself and I fear that we've lost our humanity, but if someone can brush off 92 years of hate and ignorance that was instilled in them as a child, we can all change for the better.
At exactly one hundred years and one month, one could take infinite amount of wisdom from her. I could take away her love of life That each day be cherished, but never to the point where we raise expectations about reality. For my grandmother, a perfect day would be a nice breakfast with hot coffee. Hope into her sun clothes and head to the beach. A full day soaking up too many rays, while bronzing her skin to look "beautiful." Back to the house at four in the afternoon for cocktails, of which there would be many and dinner with friends or family. My grandmother's life was all about enjoying the little things in life. A Jelly Roll Morton song, a beautiful painting or a long walk down a tree lined path. Listening to the ocean crash into the beach, sips of cold scotch and laughing with friends. My grandmother lived her 100th year the same as she did her 20th. With no expectations other than, the alternative is worse. She loved life and was tormented in her later years by her physical restraints. Thankfully, her mind, which depending on who you speak to was warped from the start, stayed sharp. I could talk about a lot of things, but I will discuss one thing that changed the way I looked at her and brought me closer to understanding, not only her, but people. Now this story will start off in a way that doesn't seem very complimentary, but it taught me a valuable lesson, so please be patient.
About eight years ago, my grandmother was in the hospital. This in itself was rare, because she was very healthy, but if I remember correctly, she had broken her clavicle. At 92 she came back from this injury in half the time someone one third her age was expected to. She was speaking to some family and mentioned her great grandfather, William Poulson. An elderly black man stopped by the door and said "Excuse me, I couldn't help but overhear you mention William Poulson. May I ask, was he from Virginia (The man was specific to the area, but I myself forget it)? My grandmother paused, as did everyone else and she confirmed. The man paused, "Said, my name is William Poulson, as was my father, his father and my great grandfather and my great grandfather was from the same town in Virginia." He then tipped his hat and said "It's a pleasure to meet you. Good day."
As my grandmother tells the story, there was a few moments of silence and some confusion from her hospital guests. My grandmother collected her thoughts and explained to everyone that the man shared the name, which had been carried down and was from the same place. Still, with confusion on the faces of her guests, she explained "My great grandfather owned his great grandfather. Slaves very often took the names of their masters back then and the family name stuck."
To understand the impact of the story, you must understand that my grandmother was taught racism. My grandmother never truly hated anyone, but was taught to hate blacks. Anyone who has ever been to Philadelphia, where she lived most of her life, knows that the race issue there makes it seem like the 50's and 60's. The city as a whole has not evolved the way much of the country has and the racism is quite open. Sadly, a good part of my grandmother's family still feels that way. It was a bone of contention when I was growing up, because my grandmother would use the "N" word as if it was as innocent as saying someone was tall. She did so, because it was ingrained in her. Since that day in the hospital, I don't remember he saying it more than two or three times, each time, correcting herself, explaining "we don't use that word anymore."
My grandmother has always confused my view of prejudice. She would make racial slurs, yet praised the Philadelphia Eagles' quarterback Randall Cunningham and talk of how handsome he was. Same with all black athletes who helped her team win. She also had a love for jazz that was unparalleled and constantly explained to me that Fats Waller and Jelly Roll Morton were the best. It always confused me that someone with such admiration for these people could still be racist. The reality was, she wasn't. Her family was and that is what they expected out of her and it was taught.
Last September, she and I sat on a porch and listened to a neighbors rap band. The neighbor was white and all the members of his band were white. She confirmed that she liked the lively music and asked what kind it was. I explained it was rap and also tried to goad her a bit, by explaining it was more popular in urban and black culture. She said, "Well, they have always been ahead of us in music and that's why Elvis and whites from that the 50's era stole all their music." I laughed and told her she'd get my "Italian, Irish and German friends, pretty mad with that kind of talk." She explained that if they didn't know that, then they didn't know history. I laughed again and had to continue my goading. I asked her what she thought about Obama. She said "I didn't think I'd see it in my life, but he's been OK. I don't like the other guy, because he's a flat out liar. He's never done anything positive for this country aside from something I read about the Olympics. Plus, all his good ideas Obama's already done. Obama's more like everyone else than the other guy." I asked her if she had a problem that he was black. She said, "what difference does it make to me. I have had nurses who were black and they take care of me just as well as the white nurses, so why should I care what they look like?"
During her 100th birthday party, there were 44 people present. One was black. She turned to me and said "Oh there is my friend. He's the best dressed man in Ithaca." The gentleman came over and gave my grandmother a kiss. It was something I never thought I'd see as a child. It took 92 years for her to change her mind and in her last eight she accepted everyone who was genuinely good. I am a cynic myself and I fear that we've lost our humanity, but if someone can brush off 92 years of hate and ignorance that was instilled in them as a child, we can all change for the better.
Now that definitely gives us all hope! What an extraordinary woman. A life well-lived, and lessons well-taught. Sorry for your loss.
ReplyDeleteThanks! In her death, I find more than sorrow, I've been celebrating her life through memories and sharing stories. She was a nut, but in all the good ways. Lived life the way we all wish we could.
ReplyDelete