I couldn’t sleep last night. For the first time in awhile, I thought about my grandmother who passed away 7 or 8 years ago – I just remember it was on Thanksgiving. Maybe it was spending time with my extended family for Rosh Hashanah that brought up thoughts of my grandmother. Maybe it’s all these memoirs I’m reading. Maybe it’s the many recent Facebook posts I’ve seen celebrating either 91st birthdays or those no longer with us. I’m not sure. All I know is that when thinking about my grandmother, my heart remained hardened and I still felt betrayed because in essence, the woman was a bully. But I don’t want to feel this way anymore. I’m not very good at forgiveness, but it’s something I need to learn. Maybe writing about it will help.
Frances Kornbluth was a hard woman whose icy blue eyes and hefty girth reflected her steely, obstinate personality. She was full of contradiction, hypocrisy, and black and white opinions; no matter how much knowledge you obtained, you could never be right and you could never know more than her. She demanded and deserved reverence for being older, but her tactless and harsh treatment of others eventually turned her into caricature.
As a kid, my grandmother’s braggadocio, backhanded compliments, broken promises, and obvious barbs intimidated the hell out of me, and I used to cringe whenever I knew we were visiting her or when I heard her gravely voice destroyed from decades of heavy smoking. She even had these talon-like fingernails, always painted dark red. I wondered if they could pierce my flesh as easily as her tongue punctured my self-confidence.
“You had better not ever bring home a fat girl,” she once told me, her ample frame stuck in the restaurant booth where we sat. I sucked in my stomach to mask my own chubbiness.
“You’re not a real baseball fan,” she once admonished me, her finger pointing accusingly at my youthful face after I’d expounded on my beloved New York Yankees. There were no further comments from her, just those painful words deflating my childhood enthusiasm.
Her worst offense (in my mind) came when I was fourteen. At the time I was a struggling junior high school kid. I was lethargic in my studies with a massive procrastination problem. My grandmother decided to make me a deal; if I would bring up my grades beyond a 90 average, she would quit smoking, a habit that she’d practiced for more than forty years and loved. The deal was struck in a restaurant and my parents, sister, and one of my best friends were witnesses. No one except me believed my grandmother could quit smoking if I came through, but she was adamant. She could quit whenever she wanted.
By the end of the school year, my grades had improved dramatically and I had far surpassed the agreed-upon threshold. I had held my end of the bargain and consequently, it was time for my grandmother to do the same. As promised, she quit. I was so proud of myself, not just for getting my grades up but for getting my grandmother to quit a habit I found repulsive. And I was so proud of her for quitting. When I caught her outside smoking a cigarette a few months later, my heart sank, but it wasn’t until I accused her of going back on her promise that it actually broke. “There was no deal. I never said such a thing.” Any respect for her died at that instant. I’m not sure when my love for her did. I don’t know if I ever loved her, to be honest, though I can say that without a doubt, her bullying fed into my depression and lack of self-esteem.
As I got older, I adopted my father’s approach to dealing with her. To my mother’s chagrin, we goaded her into making buffoonish statements. By doing so, we made her into a cartoon, a mascot. At family get-togethers, we’d challenge her until she said something outrageous that could get the whole family (except my mother) chortling behind her back. I do feel guilty about that.
Now nearing 40, I can understand what caused her inability and outright refusal to appear weak or vulnerable. She came to New York from Poland when she was just sixteen. She spoke no English and had little family in the United States. She was supposed to be followed by her parents and brother but they fell victim to Hitler. Like most immigrants she learned American ways and values on the fly: hard work, persistence, family. She married a brilliant doctor and had a child but lost her husband at a very young age. She spent most of her life working. She took a job at Lord & Taylor and eventually retired with a prestigious title but little in the bank. She suffered from diabetes and high blood pressure. She relied heavily (but without recognition) on the good will of my parents who paid for her apartment, drove her wherever she needed to go, and took care of her when she fell terminally ill. She led a difficult life of heartbreak and it only makes sense she would construct mental walls of the thickest material.
In her final months, as she lay ravaged by lung cancer, my grandmother finally praised her family and told us how much she loved us. This woman, who for as long as I knew her would never acknowledge her mistakes even when faced with blanket proof, finally admitted she had been wrong (though she did go to her death defiantly believing OJ Simpson innocent). She told me she was proud of me, proud of all the things I had accomplished and all the successes she knew were in my future. She called Elaine, then my girlfriend, beautiful and wonderful. I sometimes wonder, though, had she made some miracle recovery, would she have denied ever saying these words?
My mother, who once broke her collarbone when she was younger and was terrified my grandmother was going to hit her because of it, believes the lesson to be gleaned is: “Never wait too long to tell people you love that you love and appreciate them. It’s just not worth it.”
My grandmother will never know Sienna. I’m puzzled as to how I’ll describe her should my daughter ever want to learn about her great-grandmother. Will I have learned to forgive by then or will my heart remain angry and hurt? I wish for the former, but expect the latter, probably because bullying brings up such rage in me. But I want to forgive. I want to let go. I hope this is the first step.