You have not converted a man because you have silenced him

Jen D-L
Jen D-L
Aug 26, 2017 · 6 min read

A Letter to my Grandma:

Grandma,

I have been reading a collection of letters about radical hope this week so that I might find some strength in the words of others during what’s been a very difficult two weeks for our country. Reading the letters has made me want to write one of my own, and you’re the only person I yearn to speak with these days. Since I cannot, I will write to you here. I look forward to listening for your response in the quiet moments of my coming days.

If you were here, you would be railing at your television with such thunder, that I might actually find you out on the streets with your Tusconian brothers and sisters, running your turquois and purple walker’s wheels down to knobs. I know you swore off stumping for politicians after having your heart broken too many times, and I can’t imagine how this election would have ripped you up. Most days I am grateful that you aren’t here to see this mess because I’m pretty sure it would have killed you instead. And then I would have a body at which to direct my angry vengeance for your death, and I would be doomed.

This week though, Grandma, something has gotten worst. The mood shift feels palpable in the media, in conversations with our family, my acquaintances, and yet it is so hard to know the true tenor of any one moment these days. Privilege clouds most of my perception and the echo chamber of my primarily white and well-educated community and my safe surroundings is a constant reminder that I live an exceptional life, one that you helped build for me. It’s a reminder that the words “Our” and “country” put together have always included unspoken caveats, exceptions, and that we are still partaking in the infuriating process of defining and enforcing those boundaries on the people living here. A reminder that there will always be certain people in power, and certain people oppressed by that power, but that there never seems to be an understanding, or even a will to understand, in those higher circles of power, the circumstances that make it that way.

I remember many conversations with you Grandma, about boundaries, and building up a life for myself on a personal level. No matter how many times we spoke about politics and socialism, communal living, consensus building, sharing resources with likeminded folk, you were always firm in your belief that life has certain requirements, and it takes personal focus and conservation to have an adequate supply for oneself. You did not understand why I chose to live in community, with non-blood relations, and you thought I was giving too much to people who may not be there to return the favor down the road. It was inefficient, not a good use of resources, even if perhaps the young girl in you who wished she was cool and unattached enough to be a beatnik admired the ideals. But that was not the path you chose. You had two little children, a husband, and the reality of raising a family in 1960’s America. And then you were faced with your eldest granddaughter, confronting the same political themes, the same personal decisions, fifty years later. You said you could never live like that; you had needs that could not be negotiated. You had no interest in negotiating at 70 years old, and who could blame you.

In my twenties, these conversations were confusing, and I rarely heeded your advice to focus and conserve my energy. I didn’t understand how the decedent of Jewish socialist communal farmers could be so thoroughly pissed at the selfish, unintellectual republican legislatures in your chosen home of Arizona, and then go home to live with only your husband in such a beautiful spacious abode all by yourselves. And yet I visited every winter to partake in that luxury of your company, your home, the infinite space for intellectual conversation, your appreciation of art, food, and living at a slower pace. I understood and appreciated the appeal; I even needed it, at that age, at least once year. And now, being a few years older, slowing down and losing the effulgent energy of my youth, I understand it completely.

With your passing out of this world, I choose to transfer the fruits of your conservation and wealth into my own home, investing in that same rooted story you told your entire adult life, for myself. My wife and I have our needs now, our peculiar systems and routines that work for us, and it is hard to want to negotiate with anyone else. Even sharing space with our dog guests that board with us for extra gig economy cash is taking a toll on my crotchety 32-year old self these days. The last one that stayed with us ate my favorite giant summer sausage from Costco and I was pissed (although I have no interest in replacing it, I simply found joy in having it on our counter just in case I wanted to eat some of it one day).

Even with politics the way they are these days, Grandma, I still have hope that across our generations, the bend of the arc is towards freedom. Although I have followed your example, and am now a property owner, a reformed believer in the need for stability and rootedness for myself, I still transverse boundaries that were enforced in your generation, some, that I am sad to never have confronted in conversation with you. I am so glad that you were able to walk down the aisle, a witness and supporter of my wedding celebration to my wife Emily as we married under the full protection of our state (and soon thereafter, federal) law. I wish you were still here to listen to our struggles as we continue to choose a life based in freedom and love, not confined by a puritanical restriction of our bodies and our desires, but based in a partnership of mutual support as we both navigate loving relationships with other partners as well. I wish I could travel out to visit you this winter with my boyfriend, W*, and introduce you to a person who is trying to love beyond boundaries, just as I am.

We could continue our conversations about how to build a safe and secure life, one of prosperity and love, without too much compromise and heartache. You could help me see the edge a little more clearly, the tipping points of disaster, the consequences and risks of our struggle to be free, that can only be understood on the other side of loss. The last man I brought to meet you called me brave once, when we were approaching the same desire to be free, and I did not accept his assessment. I felt I had very little to lose at that point, and one cannot be brave out of ignorance. Loss is always about perspective though, isn’t it, Grandma? He was quite a bit older, and now so am I.

I guess I am not looking for any answers, Grandma, and I know you would not have many to give if you were here. But I am listening to your choices, your limits; I am mining those boundaries as I chart my path forward. I remember your fire and fury in response to any politician who threatened people’s personal freedom, and I am watching for signs of immediate danger as I think critically about how I should invest my energy in the days ahead. I have hope that the groundwork you and your ancestors have laid on your path to freedom, your journey to find balance in love and family, community and faith, has built a vision in me that cannot be destroyed overnight.

As I spend most of my nights now pondering your Ben Shahn lithograph hanging in my office, it’s meaning still outside of my own personal reach, I’ve noticed a foreboding feeling creeping up saying that I may understand its meaning soon enough. “You have not converted a man because you have silenced him.” Those words give me faith that we are still on the right path today. Even as the rhetoric of our current political administration is horrifying, or as neo-nazis march in the streets with tiki lamps bought at Walmart, I am still speaking and I am still in pursuit of my truth. I can still hear my own voice and I can still hear the voices of a diverse world of others. I will continue to write to you, Grandma, and share that writing with the world, as long as I am able.

Love,

Jen

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Jen D-L

Written by

Jen D-L

Writing about queer relationships, homesteading, film, love

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