Dear Grandma,
Sorry I've been such a screwup and haven't kept in touch. Please accept this offering of a glittery card in type that is, upon further reflection, too small to be legible. It is a down payment on the debt of years of equally crappy cards that I never sent.
Guilt is generally effective, and no guilt is as effective as grandma guilt. When I called you last Mother's Day, I did so because I hadn't remembered to send a card in time. It broke my heart to hear you say that none of the other grandkids had written or called. This is the only case in which me wishing you to have memory problems is not a terrible thing.
You're old. Possibly 90. I'm not sure, because I am a terrible grandson, and we haven't kept in touch. You've seen the world. You have stories to tell. But I'm not supposed to ask. Did you really study in Japan and get trapped there by the war? Did you really disguise yourself as a man to avoid rape and forced prostitution? Grandpa isnt around anymore, but maybe you can tell me about his younger brother, about the fights that led to Hideo joining the US army and dying in France. I had copied the inscription of his name on the 442nd/100th monument in Little Tokyo, and was going to send it to you. I can't recall if I did -- I think there was some concern that it would dredge up bad memories.
Is it terrible that I want to know about the dramatic events of your life, instead of the grueling, daily reality of raising five kids on the farm? I know you fucking hated farming, or at least being married to a farmer. I don't know if you hated grandpa or not -- we have the luxury of marrying for love now. You made it work, and thank you for that.
Did you know something was off about Dad? Bipolar I usually manifests itself in the teens. The vocabulary of mental illness didn't really exist then, and certainly not in rural Hawaii. But I don't know -- grandpa did read a lot, when he wasn't writing angrily to the local newspaper about taxes or the constitution. I remember writing to you both about my depression, and he replied with a message advising vitamins and exercise. I think Grandpa knew a lot, but perhaps didn't understand people. Maybe I'm not so different.
I know we discussed about you leaving the farm. It'll be hard to leave, and god knows I hope your family doesn't go through the same problems mine did when they sold property. Your family. Not Mine. It feels that way. I can't say it's just Dad, either. I'm sorry, but I believed that after Dad died, I wouldn't keep in touch with that side. And it's sort of worked out that way. This crappy card is one of the few connections. It's a fragile metaphor of all the things that could have been and weren't, and all the things that shouldn't have been but were.
I'm sorry Grandma. I'm sorry life hadn't been easy for you.
You have a wonderful laugh, and I hope you make more use of it.
Love,
Ryan
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
Sunday, May 3, 2015
Reunion
Joy, I don't really understand.
But pain?
That is more familiar, more real, and more interesting.
Ten years sounds like a long time. It is a long time. And yet it felt as if many of us were holding our breath. Uncertainty.
Some of us, including yours truly, seemed in better shape now than at five years. We had left grad school. We had found jobs. We had, slowly, rebuilt our confidence, our reserves of emotional energy, and rebuilt -- or built, really built, for the first time -- our sense of self. Maybe we were still reacting to circumstances, but those sprints seemed less harried, with the gap between action and reaction growing, and the gaps between events a bit more comfortably long.
Some of us were less secure now than five years ago.
After ten years, those still in academia were still navigating postdocs, professorships, research positions, and teaching offers.
Some had left or lost their jobs.
Some had kids.
Some were getting ready to finish or leave school, and waiting for the next step.
Whether people were doing well, or doing poorly, it felt like many of us were in some sort of transition.
What a ten years. I think a lot of us bore scars. We were the graduating class that were one week into college when 9/11 happened. We had a cross burning on campus. We went through the drama of the Kerri Dunn saga. The recession hit our class pretty hard, and some of us won't make it up.
The pain we talked about, though, wasn't macro pain. It was personal, private, but in this space, seemed safe to share. Not all shared, and no one shared all. But enough to remind me that these people that intimidate me even as they inspire had lived.
And I was proud of them for fighting for their lives and happiness and purpose, as desperately as our ancient ancestors fought over scraps of meat. These aren't only people who were brilliant and hardworking and lucky. They are survivors.
When I learned that, I loved them for it. I chided myself for not listening better in the past. Pride and insecurity had deadened my ears then, when we were all young and present. How could I forget that under all that talent and beauty were real people, maybe as scared and uncertain as I was? How had I made them gods, and by doing so, forgotten to be present and helpful?
This isn't about me. It's about them. I'm so proud of them. I couldn't give a rat's ass about their professional successes. I should, but I just really don't care. I love the people they've become, the emergent selves that push with grace or blunt power against the world, and build up, raise up, speak up.
I'm misrepresenting. Most of reunion was laughing and catching up, revelry and reminiscing. But I will forget that; those things will fade. I will remember the vulnerability. Remember, but not define, for we each own our grief, and own our responses.
As for the school, we borrowed it for a weekend. And I realized that it never belonged to us. Maybe we believed our work bought us ownership. But we were borrowers. The school has changed, is changing, in ways I don't fully understand. I am too confused to be hostile, and too ancient and distant to be proud.
But these people? These Mudders? I suppose we belong to each other. At least, I belong to them, and that's a wonderful place to be.
But pain?
That is more familiar, more real, and more interesting.
Ten years sounds like a long time. It is a long time. And yet it felt as if many of us were holding our breath. Uncertainty.
Some of us, including yours truly, seemed in better shape now than at five years. We had left grad school. We had found jobs. We had, slowly, rebuilt our confidence, our reserves of emotional energy, and rebuilt -- or built, really built, for the first time -- our sense of self. Maybe we were still reacting to circumstances, but those sprints seemed less harried, with the gap between action and reaction growing, and the gaps between events a bit more comfortably long.
Some of us were less secure now than five years ago.
After ten years, those still in academia were still navigating postdocs, professorships, research positions, and teaching offers.
Some had left or lost their jobs.
Some had kids.
Some were getting ready to finish or leave school, and waiting for the next step.
Whether people were doing well, or doing poorly, it felt like many of us were in some sort of transition.
The pain we talked about, though, wasn't macro pain. It was personal, private, but in this space, seemed safe to share. Not all shared, and no one shared all. But enough to remind me that these people that intimidate me even as they inspire had lived.
And I was proud of them for fighting for their lives and happiness and purpose, as desperately as our ancient ancestors fought over scraps of meat. These aren't only people who were brilliant and hardworking and lucky. They are survivors.
When I learned that, I loved them for it. I chided myself for not listening better in the past. Pride and insecurity had deadened my ears then, when we were all young and present. How could I forget that under all that talent and beauty were real people, maybe as scared and uncertain as I was? How had I made them gods, and by doing so, forgotten to be present and helpful?
This isn't about me. It's about them. I'm so proud of them. I couldn't give a rat's ass about their professional successes. I should, but I just really don't care. I love the people they've become, the emergent selves that push with grace or blunt power against the world, and build up, raise up, speak up.
I'm misrepresenting. Most of reunion was laughing and catching up, revelry and reminiscing. But I will forget that; those things will fade. I will remember the vulnerability. Remember, but not define, for we each own our grief, and own our responses.
As for the school, we borrowed it for a weekend. And I realized that it never belonged to us. Maybe we believed our work bought us ownership. But we were borrowers. The school has changed, is changing, in ways I don't fully understand. I am too confused to be hostile, and too ancient and distant to be proud.
But these people? These Mudders? I suppose we belong to each other. At least, I belong to them, and that's a wonderful place to be.
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