My maternal grandmother, Thelma, has not had what one would call an easy journey. She has been hardened by a lifetime of heartache that I can only imagine came predominantly from being a Dominican woman, betrayed by the patriarchy. There is a tough shell protecting her most fragile parts. But the fragility is there. She is argumentative, temperamental, bitter, despondent, racially ignorant, judgmental, scoffs and sucks her teeth at everything, and she rarely ever smiles. In other words, she is what we would call a peliona. They have something to say about anything and everything. And that something is often satiated with calumny. At least that is how she has seemed my entire life.
But something has changed very recently. Whether that is a result of either my spiritual growth and maturity or hers, I do not know. But what I do know is that in recent months have seen a new side of her that I don't think she has had the courage to bring to the foreground in my entire 26 years of living. That side is of a much more compassionate, emotional, and loving woman. That woman smiles and takes time to tell me that she loves me. She smiles and tells me how wonderful she thinks my partner is. She tells me to come visit her more often. And she is not afraid of telling me that she feels lonely. Her shell is slowly chipping away now in her old age.
Last week I paid a visit to Thelma for Dominican Mother’s Day. She had a dozen roses in her vase that my uncle had already brought her. They were awkwardly arranged. She had simply placed the dozen roses in a vase too wide for them and neglected to cut their stems. They were twelve long stemmed roses evenly spread out, towering over the vase. I brought her a bouquet that I knew she would love and immediately got to work on consolidating the two once I saw its awkward placement. I pointed out to her that she neglected to cut their stems. “Mamá, you have to cut the stems like this (I clipped them carefully at a diagonal and snipped the leaves off that were not necessary to the arrangement) and always fill your vase with cold water so that they last longer. Changing the water every couple of days will also help preserve them. A good trick is also to use ice,” I told her. I cut the stems from my uncle’s bouquet as well as mine; carefully staggering the lengths of the stems, then took several minutes to arrange them into a bouquet that she would enjoy looking at for the following week as a reminder that she has created a legacy full of people who adore her, regardless of her bitterness. She thanked me and told me it was beautiful.
Today, I saw something on Snapchat, of all the places, that made me smile. My cousin was visiting her and brought over a bouquet of his own. He uploaded a video of her sitting at her coffee table, carefully cutting her stems before putting them into a vase. I laughed with gratitude at her willingness to take someone else’s advice for once.
On Mother’s Day, my uncle joked saying, “You see, you were complaining about no one bringing you a single flower on Mother’s Day and now you have so many that you don’t know where to put them all." I don't think that she has ever doubted that she has people in her life that love her, but I think that she hasn't often received that love with grace and warmth. And I think she sometimes recognizes it. I look at her in those moments that she is in a room with all of her children and grandchildren, but drifting away in her thoughts. There is a sadness that she carries with her in those moments that I wish I could understand. I can only imagine that this is harder on her than any of us, for there are few things more disheartening than realizing that you should have loved more openly.
Over the years I have learned a lot of bits and pieces about Mamá. Over the course of two and a half decades, I have pieced together her values, grit, sincerity, and her willingness to carry on with ferocity. These pieces have answered questions I have often had about why she is such a peliona and how she came to be so self-reliant. Through my maturity and search for understanding, she has developed this sort of malleability, an ever-changing creature who becomes more magnificent as you observe it. I know, for example, that she has been disillusioned by most of the men she has loved. And that she moved to this country alone many years go from an island whose political turmoil failed her. And I know that she has lived in this country for fifty years now, in the most difficult city to survive in, without any handouts. I know that she lives alone in the Lower East Side, knows exactly where everything is in her apartment, takes care of her body, and can still get on her knees every Saturday and scrub her floors at 83 years old.
In the past I have felt a coldness from her that I have only been able to describe as "not your average grandma." She doesn't stay home, bake cookies, and sit around for her family to visit her so that she may greet them with open arms. She goes out often, stays out late, and does not answer the door when visitors come by unannounced. The latter I have witnessed myself. She lowers the television and glares at the door. "It's bad manners for people to show up unannounced." She is a calculated woman who does not like for her meticulousness to be perturbed.
But this past Mother's Day, she was a different Mamá. She did not raise her voice once during our time there. She sat and listened to Giò and I tell stories that seemed to fill her heart with excitement. She was content. She reveled in our company and basked in our thorough enjoyment of her delicious food. When she said goodbye, she entreated us to visit again sooner rather than later. I looked back as I neared the end of the hallway and she was still standing in her doorway, looking at us walk away with a bittersweetness that I had never seen her display. Although I find great tragedy in her loneliness, I am proud of her triumph over a lifetime of bitterness and I cannot wait to celebrate that more with her.
But something has changed very recently. Whether that is a result of either my spiritual growth and maturity or hers, I do not know. But what I do know is that in recent months have seen a new side of her that I don't think she has had the courage to bring to the foreground in my entire 26 years of living. That side is of a much more compassionate, emotional, and loving woman. That woman smiles and takes time to tell me that she loves me. She smiles and tells me how wonderful she thinks my partner is. She tells me to come visit her more often. And she is not afraid of telling me that she feels lonely. Her shell is slowly chipping away now in her old age.
Last week I paid a visit to Thelma for Dominican Mother’s Day. She had a dozen roses in her vase that my uncle had already brought her. They were awkwardly arranged. She had simply placed the dozen roses in a vase too wide for them and neglected to cut their stems. They were twelve long stemmed roses evenly spread out, towering over the vase. I brought her a bouquet that I knew she would love and immediately got to work on consolidating the two once I saw its awkward placement. I pointed out to her that she neglected to cut their stems. “Mamá, you have to cut the stems like this (I clipped them carefully at a diagonal and snipped the leaves off that were not necessary to the arrangement) and always fill your vase with cold water so that they last longer. Changing the water every couple of days will also help preserve them. A good trick is also to use ice,” I told her. I cut the stems from my uncle’s bouquet as well as mine; carefully staggering the lengths of the stems, then took several minutes to arrange them into a bouquet that she would enjoy looking at for the following week as a reminder that she has created a legacy full of people who adore her, regardless of her bitterness. She thanked me and told me it was beautiful.
Today, I saw something on Snapchat, of all the places, that made me smile. My cousin was visiting her and brought over a bouquet of his own. He uploaded a video of her sitting at her coffee table, carefully cutting her stems before putting them into a vase. I laughed with gratitude at her willingness to take someone else’s advice for once.
On Mother’s Day, my uncle joked saying, “You see, you were complaining about no one bringing you a single flower on Mother’s Day and now you have so many that you don’t know where to put them all." I don't think that she has ever doubted that she has people in her life that love her, but I think that she hasn't often received that love with grace and warmth. And I think she sometimes recognizes it. I look at her in those moments that she is in a room with all of her children and grandchildren, but drifting away in her thoughts. There is a sadness that she carries with her in those moments that I wish I could understand. I can only imagine that this is harder on her than any of us, for there are few things more disheartening than realizing that you should have loved more openly.
Over the years I have learned a lot of bits and pieces about Mamá. Over the course of two and a half decades, I have pieced together her values, grit, sincerity, and her willingness to carry on with ferocity. These pieces have answered questions I have often had about why she is such a peliona and how she came to be so self-reliant. Through my maturity and search for understanding, she has developed this sort of malleability, an ever-changing creature who becomes more magnificent as you observe it. I know, for example, that she has been disillusioned by most of the men she has loved. And that she moved to this country alone many years go from an island whose political turmoil failed her. And I know that she has lived in this country for fifty years now, in the most difficult city to survive in, without any handouts. I know that she lives alone in the Lower East Side, knows exactly where everything is in her apartment, takes care of her body, and can still get on her knees every Saturday and scrub her floors at 83 years old.
In the past I have felt a coldness from her that I have only been able to describe as "not your average grandma." She doesn't stay home, bake cookies, and sit around for her family to visit her so that she may greet them with open arms. She goes out often, stays out late, and does not answer the door when visitors come by unannounced. The latter I have witnessed myself. She lowers the television and glares at the door. "It's bad manners for people to show up unannounced." She is a calculated woman who does not like for her meticulousness to be perturbed.
But this past Mother's Day, she was a different Mamá. She did not raise her voice once during our time there. She sat and listened to Giò and I tell stories that seemed to fill her heart with excitement. She was content. She reveled in our company and basked in our thorough enjoyment of her delicious food. When she said goodbye, she entreated us to visit again sooner rather than later. I looked back as I neared the end of the hallway and she was still standing in her doorway, looking at us walk away with a bittersweetness that I had never seen her display. Although I find great tragedy in her loneliness, I am proud of her triumph over a lifetime of bitterness and I cannot wait to celebrate that more with her.