my family’s narratives sound more like Black country tall tales than real-life happenings. i abhor the abuse that runs rampant in them and the traumas it caused generationally, but i‘m part of the laughing choral response to my relatives' calls and recounts of old ass whoopings. my colorful, multi-layered, dysfunctionally loving family.
i didn’t realize until now just how communal we are. from the daily 7pm prayer line to the walk-this-food-down-to-so-and-so’s-door errands, i learned early how to be in community with others. how there’s always enough ’cause we gon’ make it enough. how the bare fridge and cupboards that only bore syrup or sugar or tomato sandwiches for us, somehow turned out a whole meal of fried fish/squash/cornbread (or some other miraculous spread) once gma got home from work. how waking up to a floor full of bodies & blankets that weren’t there the night before never seemed to make the tiny house overcrowded. how everyone has something to offer & we all are stronger when we come together.
my gma has been the glue to this family since her mother passed. miraculously she raised five kids — and a huge extended family — on a meat packer’s wages. gma’s home was our collective heart and headquarters. everyone’s spirits are broken right now, gathering in wait. yet i also feel the beauty of the moment. traveling from far and wide. gathering on the porch telling stories. recalling ancestors and old times. sometimes we focus so much on generational curses that we overlook the generational gifts.
it’s a gift to be able to care for my gma. my glamour girl. the one love that has never felt conditional or incomplete. she’s done so much for me since i came into this place that, while i can never repay her, i consider it an honor taking care of her as she transitions from it.
her trust in me goes far beyond her body and health. gma is of the silent generation; long-suffering, hard working, and minimal complaining about the way things are or should be. it used to be that anytime she was questioned about the past, gma would deflect or say she didn’t remember. over the past year though, i’ve become a confidant of sorts. she’s entrusted me with stories of peoples and places that would be lost were it not for our talks and my transcription app. she’s allowed me to see and get to know her as a person. to understand more about her life and choices and reasons. while the life she was given didn’t allow her to dream — and she deserved so much more — the magic created from what she had is the foundation of a rich legacy. far too many of my relatives took it for granted. a great number still do, honestly.
i don’t.
so much of my life has been spent searching for things i knew were possible as others had them, but they were missing from my own. or so i thought. months of documenting gma cleaning fish, making her famous sweet potato pies and potato salad, and pointing out places that no longer exist as we drive by proved that i couldn’t see the forest for the trees. i’ve always had what i was seeking. i missed it because it didn’t look as expected.
losing her feels like the end of an era. the way of life my gma and her siblings knew is gone, and with each successive death a connection to many Black traditions is lost. my mom, her siblings, and cousins will soon be the only witnesses left. gma’s allowed me to be a bridge, though. watching her over these five months, relearning her silent cues and passive aggressive ways created a rosetta stone of sorts; i can now comb through my memories and her narratives to get a clearer understanding of her.
of Black southern culture.
of heritage & legacy.
of love & community.
my gma is the least affectionate person i know. so in a way it feels wild, the flood of communications i receive daily, people sharing how she’s impacted their lives and is the favorite *fill in the blank relation or association*. i’ve always known her direct descendants/close relatives adore her, but i couldn’t have imagined how many coworkers/community members/distant relatives hold her in such high regard. she’s given so much in various ways over her lifetime and people are really showing up, ensuring that she’s carried out on a wave of love.
it blows my mind that she trusts me so much. like, yes — i told her i’d come support her through pancreatic cancer treatment. i was ready to be whatever she needed as it pertained to her health and medical care. however i wasn’t prepared for her to tell me she wants me to do EVERYTHING. that’s the exact word she used — everything. those familiar with Black folk speak understand just how much is being said in so little. one word with much emphasis. bypassing her five children and three living siblings, gma wants me to stand in her stead and i’m scared shitless.
in addition to the health stuff — which now includes managing a gallery of hospice care workers, equipment and tasks — there are also financial affairs. arrangements with the funeral home and family church. receiving guests and gracefully accepting calls and messages. holding space for members of my family in the ways each individual needs. playing hostess of gma’s apartment. choosing my favorite uncle, her eldest, to help me care for her at night. keeping him supplied with enough weed and six-packs to cope with losing his son and mother in a month’s span, while giving him an experience to reflect on later. i’ve been promoted to a position i didn’t expect to need filling for a long time and the weight is overwhelming.
i don’t know how i’m doing it. i’ve never been so all over the place yet organized in my life. my nerves are raw and numb all at once. i haven’t truly slept in weeks nor eaten in days. but i’m here because my girl chose me. through tears because i’m hurting her when changing her. silent sobs as she hugs me or squeezes my hand during coughing fits. trying to read her damned near closed eyes because she can barely speak.
this has got to be one of thee hardest things ever. but it’s also achingly beautiful. just as the best remedies often taste and feel the worst, i know somehow this experience is for my good. not only am i caring for gma as she’s cared for me, decades old family rifts are being mended. just in time for her to see some things come together despite the feeling of falling apart.
finding myself at the center of Black rites and traditions while my gma transitions isn’t the way i saw this whole thing going. holding vigil, supporting loved ones, and keeping gma comfortable as a main character was not on my bingo card. i feel like a death doula of sorts, but i find solace in knowing that i’m also helping birth a new norm.
