In My Grandmother’s Kitchen

The other side of the story

Photo of the author as a child in her grandmother’s kitchen

I wrote recently about a conversation that occurred when I was a child. My maternal family was assembled in my grandmother’s kitchen when a typical Sunday family get-together morphed into a conversation about murdering me for being a witch.

The vast majority of the comments were empathetic and supportive (or the people writing them thought they were). Many felt that there was no reason for me to continue to have contact with my grandmother who had initiated the debate. Of all the many people who were in that kitchen all those years ago, she’s the only one I still speak to.

My conflict within over whether to continue our relationship has its roots in that moment — that’s where it was born. But its current incarnation is why this has grown between us like a pernicious weed.

Yet, as in all stories, there is another side to this one…

I’m the lucky one

I never fully appreciated how lucky I was to survive my childhood. Decades of my family telling me I wasn’t being abused even as its members stabbed, strangled, and drowned me forever altered my mind. I’ll never know who I could have been without their abuse — one of the greatest tragedies of my life.