Baldly Forward

My grandma passed away recently. I was there with my aunts, my sister, and my niece. All women huddled together to comfort each other and to walk Grandma home. It’s miraculous how much beauty and truth can be experienced in grief. Our family hadn’t seen each other much in recent years—but in those moments gathered around her bed, it didn’t matter. 

Over the past few days, my core memories of her and their meaning have washed over me. Today, I want to share a memory and a new revelation attached to it.

Grandma worked at a convenience store for most of my childhood. When I’d spend the night with my grandparents, she would often take me to work with her. I loved it! When I was quite little, I believed I played some kind of important role in her shift—like I was her assistant. I was “Big Time Jenny” when I got to stand behind the counter with her. We hung out until closing on those weekend nights, and she’d let me pick out my breakfast for the next morning from the store shelves, which usually consisted of those small boxes of sugar cereal or donuts. Pick your poison. 

Anyway, I remember being around 8 or 9 years old when a friend spent the night with me at my grandparents’ house. Grandma took us both to work with her. She let us go outside to play near the building for a few minutes. While out there, the subject of mooning people came up. I don’t remember the details, but no doubt I heard people laughing about mooning people, so to me at that age, mooning = funny. To make each other laugh, my little friend and I quickly mooned the apartment building next to the store. No one was out there, but it was still so funny to us. 

Fast forward a few minutes later, inside the store, Grandma looked at me with a serious expression. Not angry or scolding. Just concerned. She said that someone had called her and told her that two little girls were outside the store, mooning the apartments next door. I’m certain there was a look of horror on my face. I remember feeling embarrassed and then having a cold feeling of shame creep in.

As I remembered this story, it struck me that Grandma read my face and chose to let me learn from this silly mistake. She simply told me someone saw us, and I’m sure she let us know we shouldn’t be doing that. Then she allowed me to have my own moment of self-reflection. I don’t recall her fussing at me or telling my parents.

I was embarrassed, and like so many in our culture, was already used to experiencing a lot of shame at that point. She chose a different way to communicate with me, and that means more than I can adequately express. As funny and embarrassing as my story is, I’m teary-eyed with gratitude as I write this.

When I spent time with my grandparents, I experienced the benefit of their leniency. Like many grandparents, there weren’t too many rules at their house. When I was a teen, I could hang on the phone and tie up their line for hours. I could listen to the music I wanted. I’d stay up as late as I wanted watching Chuck Norris movies with Grandma. I could even make the poor decision to moon a rather large apartment building and not be shamed for it. It’s more than just the typical grandparent/grandchild dynamic, though. Later, when I came out as a lesbian, I never worried that Grandma wouldn’t accept me. Never even crossed my mind. That was unusual considering the times we were living in and the heavy religious cloud that loomed over most of my life.

Today, I’m sad that there was such a physical distance between us for a while, and that now the opportunity for human closeness has passed. But somehow, I understand and feel closer to Grandma Margurite than ever before. It’s a gift to know that when someone touches you at any stage in your time here on Earth, the thread never breaks.