January 6, 2009:
A few people ask me if I am doing okay. My grandmother just passed a few days ago on January 2nd. We, her grandchildren, called her grandma, my grandfather called her Cat, short for her name Catherine and others like her sister from Mississippi called her Poochie—to this day I do not know where that name came from. I remember as a child my mother trying to explain it to me and I remember still feeling frustrated from the explanation. So, I left it alone. My grandmother’s dark complexion and staple long, jet black hair, the gold tooth in her mouth, her optimistic attitude about life, her strong Christian belief, her unselfishness and her ability to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders with so much grace makes it hard for me to come to grips with not seeing her ever again. I am doing as well as can be expected and hiding the pain better than could be imagined.
I’ll never get to taste her sweet and spicy dressing at Thanksgiving. No more Oxtails and beef stew with the homemade cornbread and no more words of encouragement. I’ll never get to sit beside her and drink Maxwell House Coffee as she watches the ABC news broadcast from 6am to 8am and “Good Morning America.” No more fried chicken and greens—hers was the best, no more catfish and hugs, no more advice during crunch time, no more going to the corner store buying RC in a can and playing her lottery, no more hearing her laugh and no more listening to her stories about back when—she was a great story teller also. How would you handle it if a person that has helped raise you during the chaos of post divorce at the age of 12 during a sea of depression had suddenly died? What would you do if it felt like 5010 W. Superior was the only place in the world that made you feel like home? And no matter what was going on in that neighborhood or inside the home itself you always had a system as reliable as the Department of Corrections—three hots and a cot. If you could deal with the gunfire, walk past the drug addicts, keep your change from the begging winos then you had arrived at 5010. But even inside there were some of the same issues to contend with, but it was never as bad as outside because grandma and granddad were there.
And I can say that I am still processing what impact this loss has on my mother’s side of the family. My grandfather—her husband—died about a year and a half ago. That put tremendous pressure on my grandmother. They were married over 40 years. He saw to taking care of the financial side, even though she worked at various points in her life, he mostly took care of the business aspects. She made sure the children were taken care of. She cooked, cleaned, scolded, loved and did the best she knew how. And when her grandchildren came into being she loved them even more. She tried to remain as neutral as possible, tried not to separate the haves from the have-nots, the educated from the uneducated and the drug-afflicted from the sober. She always believed that God was in control of it all.
Everyone seemed to go in different directions. The list is too much to detail—maybe I will put it in a book. So, her loss seems to finalize the separation of an already divided family. People grew and moved on and some just grew, but whatever the case was grandma was always there with some type of reaffirming lecture. Some people saw her as a crutch, said that she didn’t raise her boys to be men and said that she handicapped them in some way by allowing them to always come back to 5010. But what I believe she really taught was unconditional love, the love of Christ. I believe that she taught to have control over your life, but if ever things got too much to bear there was always home. It was not her fault that certain family members took advantage of that. She is not to blame for the mistakes or mishaps of others. She set the best example of a mother and grandmother I have yet to see. She has been a shining example of Matthew 5:1-12, which says:
“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called sons of God. Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me. Rejoice and be glad, because great is your reward in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”
The funeral proceedings and the re-pass will probably be the last time I ever see a lot of my cousins. We did not even share in the same last names. My grandparent’s home symbolized the only common thread among us. So, as I walked into West Suburban Hospital in Oak Park, where my grandmother lay in the bed, I could not react. I saw as my cousins and mother looked into my eyes and wondered how I would take viewing her body motionless, detached from her soul. This was not just the death of the matriarch. It was the death of an era.