Crossing Over
Reflections on life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. And curse words.
Early Monday morning, I sat with my family at my grandmother’s bedside as she took her final breaths in this world. As she reached this final crossing over from life to death, surrounded by those who love her, I held her sun-worn hand and reflected on our shared history. Those hands cooked countless pasta dishes and Italian cookies, knitted mountains of sweaters, supported endless books deep into the night, gesticulated wildly when angry, cleaned a multitude of floors, and most of all, they propped me and my family up like Atlas with the world on his shoulders. They allowed me to be where I am.
As my grandmother crossed over, she gave me pause to think about the multitude of crossings I experienced last week; she silently bade me to connect the dots. Always the teacher, I thought, remembering how she used to make me and my sister call her “Miss Amy” (her name is Josephine) as we played “school” at her Formica kitchen counter in Queens*
*This game mostly involved us doing our “work” wrong and her scolding us, and maybe rapping our knuckles with a ruler. We all thought it was hysterical.
Last week I crossed the country with my 2 young children to bring them to the Women’s March on Washington. We could have gone to gatherings near us in San Francisco, but I felt called to go to my hometown to stand in solidarity for the rights of women everywhere. I went because I needed my children to be there. I went because I recognize my privilege and needed to march in respect of intersectionality. We marched in solidarity with the women on whose backs this country was built. And I marched for my grandmother.
My grandmother fought her way through a shroud of anti-immigrant sentiment and poverty to build a better life for her children and their future. Her whiteness undeniably gave her a greater chance, and I have benefited greatly from this. And if I’m being honest, she wasn’t always a bastion of open-mindedness. But she was a thinker, and she listened to us as we helped her understand why black lives matter, why gay rights are critical, and why our country is stronger when we respect each other and work together — even if our opinions differ. Truthfully, I am amazed at how far she came over the course of her feisty 97 years on this earth, and this gives me hope.
She was fierce in her decision making, and nothing would stand in her way once her mind was made up. She famously sold the Queens, NY house she’d lived in for 42 years on a Friday, bought a new one in Florida sight-unseen the next day, shed everything she owned except her pots, her yarn and her vacuum, packed up my grandfather before he even knew what was going on and moved two weeks later. To his objections she claimed, “It’s a woman’s world, Willie — it’s time to shit or get off the pot!” She knew what she wanted and she went for it.
Also, she cursed a lot (like A LOT), so maybe we should all adopt this habit as the secret to a long and full life. Her nickname for me? Little Fuckie. Sure, you can call me that too.
And yet the crossings of my grandmother and my family weren’t the only ones I meditated on at her bedside. Our country crossed over too, and I don’t mean the peaceful transfer of power that is a hallmark of our democracy. We crossed over into a new, uncharted realm where fear clashes with resistance and hope. While it may seem the force of fear has the seat of power, my grandmother’s stoic face reminded me that simply isn’t true. The millions of people who came out for this march are just the beginning. We will rise up together, and we will make our country stronger by bringing love into the light. Sometimes that love might look a whole lot like anger, but that’s just the passion that fuels us — like Nanny’s cursing. We won’t stop. We won’t go away. We will keep working together, and this will make us more powerful. We have to listen to each other like she listened to us.
These crossings are moments in time that cement a future. I simply refuse to let fear and hatred define our collective becoming. That is not our final destination. Our future is bright and the power of people standing together, marching both in opposition of fear and in support of love is what will win the day. It may take time, and it will definitely take relentless focus (and lots of expletives…) but when we look back in history we will stand proud at our accomplishments while we blow a grateful kiss to the women who propped us up so we could complete their work.
My grandmother’s last alert moments were filled with questions about the march and what it had been like. I know she would have worn her pussyhat with pride and her marching slogans would have been loud, passionate and vulgar. She sacrificed for me. I don’t take that lightly and I won’t go quietly.
These next crossings, they’re for you, Nanny. I promise I’ll swear just like you taught me.
