MC

My grandmother died. I loved her. This sounds like a weird thing to write after making such a statement but I did not know her as well as I would have liked to. She is my fathers mother. My parents divorced when I was a toddler, and contact with him was not consistent growing up. As a matter of fact we cultivated more of a relationship once I was an adult (and that still wasn't much). I would talk to his mother on the phone regularly as an adult. There was a period where I would try and visit her regularly but it didn't last long. We'd talk about education, real estate. When I was in my Masters program I had to interview a family member. I chose her. I was very interested in her life. I think most of that curiosity came from not being close to that side of my family, and really trying to figure out more about myself. When she told me about her life it gave me a lot of understanding about her, and why she was how she was. She was married all of her adult life. Had eight children. She didn't learn to drive until her husband, my grandfather died. She would always tell me that I was doing so good. To keep going to school and to not get married or have children lol. I always thought this was funny. Never knew why that was her stance until later. I couldn't imagine having eight children. Then being black, in the south, in the pre civil rights era in America, with a man exhibiting such behavior....I probably tell my granddaughter the same thing. She was a very smart woman. A strong woman. She played chess and not checkers so to speak. She helped him run his business. They say the only Black owned one in the area at that time. She did the books. I do have memories of walking in there with my mom. I still remember the way it smelled. Like oil, metal. I would ask for candy and change to go to the vending machine. There was also a candy store across the street that sold the stalest candy. But I was happy to get it. As much as I would like to make this longer, I don't have anything else to say. Because once again, I didn't know her as well as I would of had liked. But I was still very emotional. Very sad. I cried. I prayed. I talked with my brother and sister to support them, for them to support me. I soul searched. Trying to figure out if I was crying and sad just because someone died, or because someone I cared for and loved died. I've cried when people I don't even know have died. Because death is sad. But she was the one person on my fathers side I had the most conversations with. I guess what she represented to me is half of me. The half of me..... the connection to a side of me I'm not familiar with. I think most wonder sometimes why they are a certain way, or where particular characteristics came from. That type of validation can be helpful to your mind...your identity. My contact with her as a young woman validated that that part of me was there and functional.....somehow. I have to also admit it gave me a false sense of connection to that side of my family. It felt good to at least pretend it was there. Felt good to my heart. It felt good to my pride. Her death made me look at that. Process that and what I had propped it up in my mind to be. And tear it down. She was always nice to me. What she did share with me about her life helped me. Reflecting on it, now that I'm older I understand alot more. Thanks Grandmama Cain.