Thahabu

I think about my grandmothers all the time. They’re both from the South, and have these thick, soothing accents that resemble chewing on saltwater taffy. We call my father’s mother Grandma and my maternal grandmother Mama Dear. I plan on visiting my paternal grandmother sometime this week.

My mom’s mother died when I was about eight years old. I was too young to process it then. I remember we were on a road trip for what seemed like a few weeks, and we stopped in North Carolina to see my mom’s side of the family. The last time we visited we found out Mama Dear had been diagnosed with cancer. She still looked strong then; skinnier, but healthy. However, on this trip she looked completely different. She couldn’t walk or talk. She was emaciated and could only lie in bed. She smiled when she saw us walk into her room. I was absolutely elated to see her. We talked for awhile. When it was time to leave I gave her kiss on her forehead and said goodbye. We arrived home a week later, after making stops in different cities like New Orleans and Denver. My sister and I followed my dad into his office, where he kept his answering machine. He played back some messages we missed while on vacation, but then we heard my aunt’s voice—she was tired. She told us our grandmother had passed a few days after we left and they’d had the funeral already.

My sister and I became a mess of tears. I think I kept saying that I didn’t want her to die. My dad held us in a tight embrace. I don’t know what it is, but that same tightness in my heart that I felt when I heard about her death has returned this week. I miss visiting her. I miss her big plates of mac and cheese, collard greens, and other soul food. I miss the way she made us get on our knees and pray before bed, like my dad used to do before we were old enough to tuck ourselves in and not pray. She was a pastor, or maybe it was a deacon (you can tell I haven’t been to church in a long time), but I remember her waking us up to give a sermon in her living room. She stood at podium and there was a plethora of white folding chairs filled with people. Aunts and uncles, or neighbors, or both. She was strong-willed and independent, yet soft and always smiling. She loved us so hard, just like my other grandmother does.

As it gets harder and harder for me to get up in the morning, I try to reproduce the feeling of this love within myself. I try to think of her laugh, and the way she told me that I need to eat more. I think about the way my grandma on my dad’s side prayed over my back and rubbed it before I had my spinal surgery. My father’s mother is very much alive, but recently fell ill. She’s tall and accustomed to being independent. It’s been difficult for her to adjust to having to depend on others. Knowing her before she became sick gave me the privilege of being able to ask her questions about our family line, and hear her sometimes ridiculous stories and warnings about men and sex. I wish I had been old enough to ask my maternal grandmother those questions and hear more of her personal stories and myths.

Clearly this affinity for creating little fables and myths to scare me and my cousins into not having sex was passed down to her kids. I have two cousins that are in the same age group as me. The year before we all got our period, my aunt Sharon told us that that we better stay away from boys, because if we let one touch our toes, we’d get pregnant. We laughed. However, our older cousin, Audri, her daughter, was not so lucky.

She was playing in the local park when a boy brushed against her feet. She ran home crying to my aunt Sharon, screaming, “I’m so sorry, Mommy! I’m pregnant! I’m pregnant!” Her mother laughed and told her the truth. I feel like stories like this one serve as a testament to how funny (and dark) my family is. I aim to be as loving and goofy towards my children when I’m their age. ♦