Dreamer(s)
“Yet I see all the numbers; I still root for the dreamer
I thank God for the dreamers, lifetime
Keep keeping on”
-Yasiin Bey (Mos Def), ‘Lifetime’
My grandma, Kathryn W. Anderson, left this world seventeen years ago today. She was fierce. She was curious. She was a dreamer.
My mom and dad worked full-time, and because of this, I spent most of my days with my grandma. Her home was my refuge, and I sincerely believed she was magical. Her magic came in her ability to do what she set her mind to, no matter the circumstances. This was a trait, I believe, she’d always had. She grew up in Farmville, Virginia (a small town in Prince Edward County, where public schools were closed rather than allow integration after Brown v. Board of Education). As a child, she worked for a white family in town; her job was watching after their daughter. As a young person, when she wanted to leave home, she took a train, leaving her small town behind in search of new experiences. She married and raised three kids in Richmond, VA, during the height of the Civil Rights Movement. Through it all, she found ways to dream for herself, her children, and her grandchildren.
I miss so much about her: her laughter, her fast-paced walk through the living room and into the kitchen, the way she would raise her eyebrows in shock or awe, her hands moving quickly and deliberately no matter the task, and her commitment to dramatic retellings of stories that often included her mimicking voices or demonstrating how someone moved or danced. I loved many things about my grandma, but one of the things that I value and treasure the most was her ability to tell stories. It didn’t matter what I was going through; whatever I shared with her, she would have a story to help me process, to offer wisdom, and (maybe most important?) to help me realize that I was not alone.
One of my favorite stories was about how she would skip class in high school. This was a story that my mom would have never told me, and that made it all the more special.
My grandma skipped her last-period class for an entire school year. Rather than sit at her desk, she marched through the hallways singing the French national anthem. The telling of this story often involved a reenactment: She would march across the kitchen and sing with her head held high:
“Allons enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé !
Contre nous de la tyrannie,
L’étendard sanglant est levé!
L’étendard sanglant est levé!
Entendez-vous dans les campagnes
Mugir ces féroces soldats ?”
According to her, she never got caught, and if ever a teacher appeared in the hallway, she’d hide and move swiftly to another corner to begin her march once more. I was so delighted by the story and her excitement while telling it that I never thought to ask the reason for her march. Was it a prank? Was this a demonstration? Why this song? As a young person, I delighted in what I perceived as her rebellion. I requested this story so many times that I knew the words when she got to the part where she would sing. All these years later, I’d love to know what made her skip class that year, but what really matters is that she was willing to share and tell me, a young person trying to figure out her own dreams, this story.
Some of my fondest memories are also of the mundane, everyday things we did together because no matter the task, it felt like they were special and that anything could turn into something magical with her. I can feel her hand over mine, moving across the pages of a book as she taught me to read, something that made me feel like I had a super power. I think about sitting on her bed while she did her hair and makeup, talking about tabloid stories and astrology that I wasn’t supposed to read but still did. I can still see the grocery lists she made for my grandpa that I swore were the fanciest pieces of writing I’d ever seen because of her beautiful penmanship. I can taste her chicken and dumplings and the iced tea she’d make during the summers (not too sweet so that it wouldn’t upset my stomach). I can hear her warnings shouted from the backdoor about which bugs and flowers to avoid so that my skin wouldn’t welt while I played in the backyard. And if I get myself quiet and steady my heart, I can feel both the strength and rush of excitement that came from her believing in me. She was a dreamer, not only for herself but for me. I know she held my dreams at times when I couldn’t. I know she dreamed of things that I didn’t think possible. I imagine she’s still doing this for me now. I hope she is. I know she is.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve often thought about how she died so close to the summer solstice. Her last physical day on earth, her last days with us, were so close to the longest day of the year. The days filled with the most light, she was here. She is here.
When I close my eyes, I see her sitting in her living room. She’s seated in the white wingback chair that’s covered in plastic. She’s sitting with her back straight and legs crossed. Her eyes are looking straight into mine, her head is tilted, her hands in her lap, and she’s smiling. I’m telling her my dreams, and she’s listening; she’s nodding, eyes fixed on mine, “I know you can do it. Once you get your head in that dream, you got it.”
I keep my eyes closed to have this last a little longer. The challenge is to keep dreaming even when my eyes are open, but the comfort is believing she still holds them even when I cannot.
