Monday, November 30, 2009

There were many days when I thought the first book might not ever happen. Now, that it’s here, I find myself wanting to write the next one, but better, stronger, with less apprehension. I’m just realizing that the people that I held back for are no longer alive.

My grandmother, Charmaine Betts, worked every weekend in my grandparents’ tavern on Harrison Avenue when I was small, and often took me home with her after closing. She taught me how to shell peas, shuck corn, and clean greens. She always had cans of mandarin oranges and wheat bread stocked in the kitchen so I could make my own breakfast. I loved her burgundy Buick Regal and playing in her closets stocked with clothes and shoes in every color you could imagine. She was funny at times and a sharp-tongued gossip. I was too young to realize it then, but I realize that I inherited some of my venom from her. She passed away after a long battle with the aftermath of a stroke in April 2005.

Her brother, my great uncle Dr. Lem D. Callahan, passed away almost one month to the day after my grandmother. I still believe he was holding on to make sure she would be okay. He had arranged for a home attendant to take care of her needs until she passed in a hospital bed in her own home.

Months before all this, in September 2008, I was wondering why I hadn’t heard from my Uncle L.D. I was so excited about my upcoming debut on HBO’s “Def Poetry Jam” episode airing. I had graduated from college and was pursuing my MFA in creative writing, but I knew this was something that he would be proud of. If any single member of my family understood, what this opportunity would mean to me, it was Uncle L.D. I sent him one of the postcards announcing that the show would be airing soon, and that I’d be performing at the Arie Crown Theater in Chicago, a theater that I heard mentioned on the radio throughout my teen years growing up in Kankakee. Days after the postcard should have arrived, no response.

I called my brother to see what was going on. Then Marcel told me. Uncle L.D. had been hospitalized for a stroke as well. He lived alone so he was on the floor of his home for 3 days before someone discovered what had happened. No one had called to tell me. I did go to visit him as soon as I learned this.

He was still intact, able to speak, smile, make jokes, and run through his various, unending to-do lists. (I am told that I get this from him as well.) I brought him his last Thanksgiving meal: turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, and green bean casserole from my mother’s kitchen. He ate every bit of it, even though he wasn’t supposed to have pepper. We had a few more conversations in the months before his death, but no one was as understanding of school or my goal to be a writer as he was. He was one of two family members who had worked his way through college to become Dr. Callahan. My other college-bound relative was my cousin Heidi, who lived with us for a short time, earned her bachelor’s degree, then a master’s degree. She now teaches middle school in Kankakee.

I never wanted to hurt their feelings, embarrass them, or air family secrets. I’ve kept the door closed on so many things that kept me angry, embarrassed, and even depressed. Over the past few months, I’ve been reading a range of memoir titles and thinking of the kids who grew up in circumstances similar to mine. Now, I’m feeling that I might be a little bit free to talk about these two elders who offered me kindness, love, guidance, and encouragement in their own ways, but also to unpack the ugly I’m unwilling to carry, the kinds that many of try to tamp down into our bones and pretend they don’t happen. There is a time to bear witness and put burdens down.

{ 1 comment }