Not every loss has a name
The permanence of grief
Eleven years ago, when I was living in Cairo, my grandfather died. For many people, this death can be gentle, uneventful, or sorrowful. But for me, it was devastating because he was the last of two people who loved and accepted me unconditionally. The other was his wife, my grandmother. Papa (or grandfather) was a philanderer who fathered thirteen “official” children, but family rumors say there were likely another ten. Grun (or grandma) was a curmudgeon near the end of her life—and yet she never saw a flaw in me or raised her voice to my screechy one. As a young person, I valued their ability to defend me against my biggest adversaries—my parents. They took my side when I challenged authority—for example, when I refused to make my bed because I was not going to finish reading Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre through osmosis. Or when my parents asked me to wear a floral, restrictive dress, knowing that this was the worst punishment they could give me, my grandparents offered some support. For those who knew me then, they had to listen to an annoying query: Why should I wear something my male cousins could run free in with their trousers? Anyone who has been subjected to my wrath would know that if I were told I had to wear a dress, I would hide or destroy the garment. My parents were often furious, but dictators will push back against the people who vex them.
The last time I saw my grandfather was during the brief period when he, my aunt, and I lived together in Miami. The three of us were a lively bunch. My aunt would make Caribbean fruit-infused moonshine, my grandfather would doze off from daydreaming, and I would ponder and scribble. I remember sitting under my aunt’s porch as we watched the late spring drizzle fall from the leaden sky. I recall the sound of crickets and chickens humming as dusk settled in. I remember his calmness after my mother called to tell me I was a failure for not owning a house. (These comments are one of the many reasons I haven’t slept under the same roof as my mother in over eight years. By the way, I still don’t own any property, so I continue to be a failure in her eyes and in the eyes of others who keep criticizing me for not achieving their version of financial or material security.) Papa and grun were refuge during those times when other family members—who should have been gentler—doubted me. With my grandfather, I felt more than okay. I didn’t need to occupy myself with menial tasks if it meant I could escape into a world of words that neither of my grandparents could ever understand. Unlike me, they never learned to read or write, so they were fascinated by someone obsessed with the written word. My persistence was encouraged, even when others mocked me for it.
Their warmth was probably due to my didactic nature. Maybe it's because at eight, I tried to teach them how to write. My grandmother would trace her name with a shaky hand that sparkled with pride. Her smugness would soften; her heart would lift. In Haitian Creole, there is a saying that goes, “Bonjou se paspo ou,” meaning “Hello is your passport.” How you greet people not only helps connect with others but also reflects who you are. He enjoyed playing with sound as much as he did with his pen. My grandfather would pronounce English words like “hello” with a bright, cheerful tone that lit up my spirit, because that’s who he was. The words were one thing, the cadence was another. And they were essential to expressing a humanity that wasn’t always available to him.
Since becoming a parent, I am reliving familial bereavements—the people who tried to diminish me are also summoned against the memories of those who loved me unconditionally. When I read Yiyun Li’s Things in Nature Merely Grow last week, I was reminded of the different types of grief that are recognized in literature and life—widow and orphan are familiar terms. For most of the weight of grief I carry, the people I mourn have a lot to do with society’s abandonment, premature death, or absence. There are no words to describe why their deaths matter to me, and because most of them did not write or could not write, their presence will fade. Their impressions on me have just as much to do with where our bonds were formed as does their character. Although I doubt I will ever live in a warm place again, I miss sitting on a milk crate under palm trees, evading the harsh rays, with my grandparents. How peaceful things seemed when I was with them. I was neither judged nor jeered by those old souls who loved me dearly.
I know I am not like my grandparents. I am too prickly, too discerning, and too self-conscious. I want to believe there is good in the world, but lately, I have doubts. So, I live in my mind, sitting with sorrow and anger all at once. What they saw was a young girl who loved to read, and they didn’t need anything more to be proud of me. Their presence was a tribute to my existence, and their absence is a silence in my soul. For those of us who will never inherit currency, brick, or mortar, the people who shape us are our endowment. Years will pass, but as long as I am alive, I will treasure the bearers of unconditional love.
Some News
You can read an interview with me in The Berliner magazine
I have a book event in Marseille on July 3 at Artless Gallery & Bookstore with Cole Stangler. Please let your friends know that I am coming through.
You can listen to me discuss my book virtually for the Fall for the Book festival with Professor Aimee L. Weinstein on 10 July. You can get free tickets if you order them in advance.
Some Recommendations
Rebecca Grant on the Battle for Reproductive Freedom in Latin America
Authors protest AI’s use in writing
Alexis Okeowo writes for The New Yorker about the women of # MeToo
Read this essay on self-doubt by the late Edmund White
Please consider giving a positive review of my book, A History of the World in Six Plagues, on Amazon, Bookshop, and Goodreads. I would be grateful if you could recommend the book to people in your life, such as relatives, coworkers, pen pals, editors, or loved ones. You can post about the book on social media, in newsletters, or nominate me for a prize, etc.
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omg this spoke to me a lot, edna. thank you for this one! <3