I'm still angry today, but rather than feeling anger at my family, I feel anger at the institutions. At the corporations that have taken advantage of their workers, at the politicians and voters who have discriminated against people of color, homosexuals, trans* people, women, people with disabilities, and poor people. I'm angry at financial institutions and businesses that make their profits through making other people poorer -- and providing no service of benefit in return. I'm angry because of all these things, because for once in my life I know who I am and what I want.
Back then, I didn't know those things, so I was just angry angry angry, in such a way I didn't know how to express besides running away. I fled to Chicago.
I should pause here and clarify: Running away implies I would one day return like the prodigal child. I never returned in that sense. I still, even as a Californian, believe that my roots have been firmly planted in Chicago, in a way that they never fully grew in as a Michigan resident. It is a hard distinction to make, but the easiest way to describe it is this .... I am a Chicagoan currently living in California who grew up in Michigan.
For a long time, particularly as my mother underwent chemotherapy and I struggled to fit in at a high school that wouldn't fit me, I rebelled through dressing in baggy, dark clothing. Some of it was cutesy and fun -- the cat ears, the criss-crossed chains on my pants, the numerous zippers and buttons. But a lot of it was an attempt to be noticed, a scream to be heard by someone. I went to my teachers and impressed them with my abilities, respect, and thoughtfulness, then came home and loathed my mother, both for being sick and for not being who I needed her to be at the time. She was angry too, for many worthy reasons, and our anger together clashed until I lashed out over and over and over again.
My lashing out culminated in my leaving home behind as if it had never existed. My friendships dwindled, my contact with my family was nearly nonexistent. I could not stand to spend time in Michigan, which constantly reminded me of people I loathed -- my high school tormentors; my friend and her father, the father for attempting to sexually assault me, the friend for not believing me when I told her what happened; my piano teacher who also tried to sexually assault me; my old therapist; my brother, who at the time demonized me for tearing our family apart; my parents. I could not step foot in Michigan without being surrounded by bad memories. And in my discomfort, I avoided it.... staying for only a day or two at a time, then hurrying back to Chicago where I felt like myself again.
I spent four years in Chicago learning how to be myself. Graduating from college in only three years, then beginning work at a PR firm. I got tattoos and piercings that helped distinguish me and my beliefs. I wrote articles for newspapers and magazines and transcribed hours upon hours of interviews, then spent additional hours devouring every piece of media I could attain. I made friends I adored and met Will, who I continue to love. And in all this, I found peace within myself and began to mend the relationships with my parents.
That brings us to now.
In seeking to better the person I had become, I joined AmeriCorps and moved to California, where I currently live. I have faced months of tumult. I have felt myself breaking down. I have not yet chronicled everything that has happened, but it has taken a lot out of my spirit, to the extent that I have wondered, after each crisis that comes up, whether I'm going to make it out of this one okay.
So when I received news of my maternal grandfather passing away (my father called to let me know he had probably a week or two), I felt that it was yet another in a long string of horrible incidents designed to break me. I anxiously awaited the day I would receive another call to say he had died. Instead, a few days later, my paternal great-aunt suffered from cardiac arrest following a surgery and died shortly after. I was unable to attend the funeral, but called my family to let them know I was thinking of them. I'm sure her funeral was lovely, as she was a wonderful person and surrounded by equally wonderful family members. I will always remember Thanksgiving dinners at her house, filled with cousins who would go sledding on the hills if there was snow, or play Mario 3 on her Super Nintendo. She made a fabulous nut bread that I couldn't eat enough of and couldn't wait to get my hands on... And though it's been more than a decade since I've experienced those get-togethers with a house filled from top to bottom with family, it'll be something I'll always remember.
Life, temporarily, went back to normal. When I talked to my mother on the phone about my grandfather, she told me about all the things she was doing to keep busy. She said, "I can't just stop to wait for him to die. I have to keep my life going." That's the best thing to do, and what I tried to do as well. I attended an in-service training for AmeriCorps, came down with the flu and spent the entire weekend in bed, and then attempted to make an entire thanksgiving dinner in a toaster oven (mild success?) with my boyfriend and his friend, who had flown to California and is living with us now. That's another story for another time.
Then on Thanksgiving, my grandfather passed away. My family learned about it the following day and called me, and I called the VISTA support team to see if I could get time off to fly home. Even though it was the day after a holiday, someone was in the office and they graciously were able to book me for a flight home. I was allowed to take the entire following week off, so I did. I flew back to Michigan on Sunday and would fly home the following Friday evening.
Monday was the funeral.
It would have been smaller, had my grandmother and grandfather (divorced since the year I was born) not had six children. In attendance were my four aunts and their husbands and children (with the exception of two grown cousins), my uncle, my grandmother and her sisters, and my grandfather's sister and her son. A few other people came as well, relatives mostly, but I can't be too sure. One of my uncles failed to show up. Only three spoke about my grandfather -- my mother and two aunts.
What made the funeral sad was not my grandfather's passing. Most of those in attendance barely knew him. Those who did, and spoke about his life, struggled to find the good in him to talk about. My aunt and mother talked about fixing the car with him, and sharing a love of music. All three talked about how he "may not have been the best father" but was "the best he could have been" and shared lessons they'd learned from him, most notably -- how to forgive someone who has caused harm to your life. My mother, whenever she talks about my grandfather, talks about forgiveness. But to me, the lesson was something more along the lines of "Do no harm" and "Be compassionate to others so that people at your funeral don't have to struggle to find something nice to say about you."
The attending minister gave a typical funeral speech taken out of a book. He had never met my grandfather in life either, and since my grandfather has been suffering from dementia for the past few years, it would have been hard to say much about him if you met him recently anyway. It's been over a decade since I've seen him myself. Unlike my great-aunt, whose memory fills me with warmth, when I remember him I just see a face, a person who didn't particularly care that I existed (nothing personal, he didn't talk to most of the family). He barely stopped by, and only then talked to just my mother. He couldn't even remember who she was, at the end. Even though she was the person who stuck with him until the end.
While his family was (and still, probably is) struggling to not see him as a horrible father, husband, and grandparent, his mind was growing darker and darker. I imagine he must have been very lonely at the end. I don't know what dementia is like, but I would hope that if you are loved, even if you don't remember their names or faces, that you feel loved. I don't know if my grandfather would have felt loved. After all, it wasn't even until he was in a nursing home that anyone even stepped up (my mother and uncle) to take care of him and his estate. Was it too late by then? Too late for him to know some people forgave and loved him?
But I agree with Mary Roach, author of Stiff -- death is not really about the one who has died. It's about everyone else. What matters to those people. And during my grandfather's funeral, I watched my family make decisions to move on, to forgive, to love, and to try harder. I also watched old family feuds play out, and still today I wonder what it will take for them to love each other again. I hope, for all our sakes, that it doesn't turn ugly at the end.
Before the funeral, and following it at my parent's house, I was able to reconnect with my cousins and some of the relatives I hadn't seen since I was a small child. It was wonderful. And then everyone left, many of them were returning back to their homes that evening, and those out of town were leaving the following morning.
Unfortunately, the next day (Tuesday), my aunt, who was staying with us, suffered a diabetic episode. She hadn't eaten enough the previous night, and her blood sugar was low enough that her brain wasn't functioning properly. She was aggressive and insisted on being allowed to sleep in. My cousin and mother attempted to get her to drink orange juice, but she refused and demanded a beer (which she doesn't even like!) instead. The paramedics were called, and they were able to help the situation. Her blood sugar went back to normal and her brain did too. My mother went to drop my older brother off at the train station (he forgot his tickets so we had to bring them back to him) so he could go home to Illinois. My aunt and her family stayed for an extra day to make sure she was okay.
By Wednesday, life had become more calm, at least for me. My mother and brothers were busy with school and the after-school musical. This was the day I needed to de-stress. After all the pent-up anxiety from everything that was happening in California, my nerves were constantly tense. I felt afraid and nervous. Wednesday, I finally allowed myself to relax.
Sometime in between the day I found out my grandfather was dying, and the day I flew to Michigan, I stopped stressing about the death and began to view this trip as a welcome relief from the crises I had faced in California. I was looking forward to the comfort of home, even though it was not the home I had built in Chicago, I recognized Michigan as a place where I could be surrounded by family I had previously shunned (and now adored) and as a place where I could attain some peace of mind.
I'm not sure if I really found that there or if I ever will. I was certainly filled with sadness, not the kind you'd expect from seeing someone die, but the kind where you wish things had been so much different.
I hope... when I die... I have lived a life that makes people say wonderful things about me. I hope they will not struggle to find good memories. I hope they are sad because I am gone, and not because I was.
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