Threads Lay Bare

The day I have been dreading for the past four years has finally come. I waited too long. I knew this day was coming, and yet I did nothing to change its course.

My grandmother died last weekend. A woman that I feel indescribably connected to but only met once. She is the bearer of my sorted family secrets.  She is a woman who could melt me with a smile.  She represents life in a world of different circumstances. My existence is directly dependent on the decisions she made so many years ago. Decisions that I have never had the chance to understand.

Shrouded in a mysterious sequence of events, my mom was raised in the care of her uncle. Fortunately for her, he subsequently became successful, enabling my mother a world of opportunities that would have been unattainable otherwise. I understand her (and everyone’s, for that matter) admiration of him.  He was incredibly successful because of his visionary entrepreneurial spirit and diligent work ethic. Even now he serves as an inspiration for his grandchildren that never had the opportunity to meet him.  He was idolized by everyone, but especially by my mother. She was daddy’s girl. Without him, my mother would have never left Gondar. Without him, she would have never met my father in the United States. Without him, I would cease to exist. I am profoundly aware that I owe everything to him, in a very literal sense.

All the same, I feel like the silvery threads holding the legitimacy of my heritage together are fraying at the edges, bearing too much weight for such delicate strands. As I try to repair the damage, I carefully avoid the splitting ends, afraid that even the slightest tug may destroy the whole fabric.

I first met my biological grandmother in 2010, a year after my mother died. There was something beautifully touching and piercingly sad about the discovery of my lost grandmother hidden in a small town tucked away in the highlands of Ethiopia. Only aware of her existence a few years prior, I was surprised to see photos tracking the progression of my childhood lining her walls amongst those of her other grandchildren. Unable to understand her words, I understood her eyes. She was overcome with emotion. Never expecting to see us (my sister and myself) in person, she was grateful to meet her lost American grandchildren. Overwhelmed by the situation, I didn’t fully appreciate the magnitude of the visit, unaware that it would change the course of my life.

I felt as if something was coming together. Unaware of my impending identity search, I felt at ease in her presence. Smiling and unable to take her eyes off of me, she told me that I looked like my mother, a compliment that stripped at fresh wounds and nearly brought me to tears. Words that I would never forget.

Sipping on hot tea, my eyes poured over every inch of her small-overcrowded living room. I wanted to remember every detail: every picture, every smell, and every crack in the wall. In silence, I tried to intellectually and emotionally process her existence.  I wasn’t ready to leave her that afternoon. I just discovered a world that I never knew existed and hadn’t yet figured out where I fit in. Although I was reluctant to go, I didn’t know then that it would be my first, and only, opportunity to meet her.

While I am incredibly grateful for my family, I can’t help but feel like something is missing. I feel like I am missing a link that grounds me somewhere, that makes me belong somewhere. I am hovering by thin threads trying to find where gravity will ground me. And the questions keep coming: How was my mother given over to her uncle? What happened all of those years ago? How did my mother feel when she found out?

Upon our first meeting, I was inspired. I vowed to come back and see my grandmother. I would learn Amharic and get to know her, understand her story as a means to understanding mine. I needed to hear her perspective on how she was separated from my mother, an event that forever complicated and confused my identity and existence.  Meeting her solidified my need to go back to discover my roots.

In 2012, I moved to Ethiopia and began learning Amharic. Going back to Gondar was the goal, the payoff to all of the self-doubt, hard work, risks, and uncertainties. The closer I moved towards my goal the more I was terrified of finding out the truth. If she rejected my mother, then was she in effect rejecting me? Already insecure about my legitimacy as an Ethiopian, I postponed visiting Gondar. I waited. Excuses are plentiful when you want them. My Amharic isn’t advanced enough. I’m too busy. I’ll go after the rainy season. It’s too expensive. In my timidity, I waited, hoping for the perfect opportunity to fall in my lap.

But perfection doesn’t exist, and I waited too long. Now she is gone, buried in those same mountains with all of the stories that I never heard. Conversely, I think about all of the stories I will never tell her. Just as I will never know her, she will never know me. I waited too long, and all the while I feel those thin threads splitting around me.

Lost In Her Eyes

We were gathered there to celebrate her 81^st birthday. A couple of years ago, her husband passed away and her Alzheimer’s kicked in high gear. As her mental capacity deteriorated, an army of friends and family gathered around to support her. This day was just another poignant example of their unrelenting dedication.

She used to sing in the church choir. Unable to continue this passion, the choir came to her. When I arrived they were already sitting in the living room around a keyboard that had been set up for the performance. After kisses and handshakes, I took my place alongside the rest of the choir.  She was sitting on the couch between her brother and son. Sheet music was passed around, and I struggled to keep up with the fidel.

Her brother stood up, thanked us for coming and led us into a prayer. Meanwhile her son guided her to the chair placed in the middle of the room. Refusing, she instead toured the perimeter of the room, finally returning to her original spot on the couch. The choir began to sing. Her face was buried in the sheet music trying to follow along, however within a few minutes, she stood again.

It was all in her eyes. Her heavy, half-obstructed, glazed eyes. Her face was contorted to a permanent state of disorientation. I remembered all too well what that feeling was like. Behind her on the wall was a framed wedding picture. Catching my eye, my neighbor told me that picture was 63 years old and proof of the advantages of early marriage. The walls were covered with many blown up family portraits. Behind me sat a picture of guest of honor in her twenties, rocking an Angela Davis fro. Her eyes told me of her cheerful yet rebellious spirit.

She wandered around trying to escape this place that didn’t make sense. She moved around as if someone was continually altering all of the rules. She knew exactly what she wanted to do, but couldn’t figure out how to do it. She knew where she wanted to go, but the route changed. She didn’t know that the distorted path was transformed until she was standing inches from the wall.  Beyond frustrated, her mind betrayed her body’s instincts. The incongruent reality gave her no refuge from her mental anarchy.

While she tried to adjust to the new rules, people rushed by her side to persuade her sit down. Her independent and defiant nature was unrelenting. The choir sang while her heartbreaking search for the correct route continued.

An hour later, we took a chai and cake break. We sang Happy Birthday while her son coaxed her to blow out the candles. To us, the inverse candles read 18. She looked at all of us, trying to understand what was happening. Her frazzled eyes rolled over everyone in the room. But there was just too much to take in. Cameras flashed. People clapped. Singing voices overshadowed hushed whispers. Feet shuffled uncomfortably. A nearby dog incessantly barked. Curtains billowed through the windows. Glasses clinked as the cook shuffled between the kitchen and adjacent living room.

It was too much. Baffled and near tears, she hid her head in her hands. The jovial atmosphere that we desperately attempted to create was wrapped in an overlay of despair. Despite our best intentions, I felt like we were making things worse. Stiffened with heightened emotion, my neck ached. Eating our cake and drinking our chai, I tried to suppress the intense sadness that washed over me, not sure if others were struggling to do the same.

Her younger brother stood up. Choked up, he thanked us again. While I missed most of his words, I understood the tender message. I lowered my eyes, trying to contain the swell of emotion. Memories of watching my mother’s own deterioration and her eyes of hopelessness flooded my mind. Emotionally depleted, he wiped his nose and sat down.

Her eyes drew me in. In them I saw a lifetime of memories lost. The years of anguish etched on her face could not eclipse her smoldering eyes of determination. She continuously wrestled her reality to make the world make sense again - to find her way home. She was trying to piece together a puzzle with all of the wrong pieces. But her efforts were in vain. With every passing moment, everything around her became increasingly shrouded in mystery and her world even smaller.

As we made our way out of the door, I was relieved to leave. The unexpected emotional afternoon took its toll on my heart. Silent and distant, my companions worried that I was bored. Unable to articulate how I felt, I weakly attempted to dispel their fears that the afternoon was anything but mundane.

Without using words, she told me her story. She was more dynamic than her tiny five-foot frame suggested and this was more than a birthday. Despite life’s seemingly insurmountable struggles, she trudges on. It was all in her eyes and they stayed with me well beyond that afternoon.