My Grandma Knew My Name

I don’t usually miss people when they’re not around. I love my friends, of course. I look forward to seeing them - but I don’t really miss them in that longing and angsty way.

My grandma died when I was twelve--over half my life ago. I miss her.

God, I fucking miss her.

She had a really hard life; you could see it in her face and the way she walked.

She was a very serious person, but when I remember her, I remember her laugh. She was playful and impossibly joyful. You could see it in her eyes and the way she carried herself.

We mostly weren’t allowed to talk about her after she died, but once when it was just me and my brothers, we sat in the living room remembering her. I said something about how she used to secretly call each of us her favorite, even though we knew that’s what she said to each of us.

They looked at each other, then back at me. “She never said that. She told us she loved us all the same.”. Awkward.

When I was very young, I told my mom that I’m a boy. It wasn’t so much an intentional coming out, as it was an absolute revelation to the both of us. At least one of us misunderstood gender, and at least one of us what about to be confronted by the crushing weight of corporeality.

Not long after that, A Goofy Movie was released. I thought Max was the coolest fucking dude I’d ever seen. I asked for a skateboard. I got the same answer I’d gotten when I asked to play soccer and the drums. I was a girl. I could never tell anyone I wanted to be a boy, or my mom might kill herself.

I stayed with my Grandma for a while after that.

She asked me if I liked being called Alexandria. I shook my head. She asked what I didn’t like about it. I didn’t know what to do. I still hadn’t quite learned how to speak in full sentences yet, especially when my head was full. I wanted to snuggle up to her, and I wanted her to know that I didn’t like how it made me feel like a girl.

My grandma was the safest person I knew, but I was scared. She waited patiently; she always had time to let me think. Eventually I shook my head and shrugged. She told me that was ok, and then asked if I’d like to be called Max. I felt immediately terrified, and my eyes filled with tears. I knew I wasn’t supposed to want that.

She sat on the floor with me and asked if I’d like to be called Alex. I curled up against her.

She bought me a skateboard shortly after. We kept it in the back closet, so no one could find it.

For the first few years of my life, we lived only a few houses from each other. When my grandfather wasn’t around, I’d stay with Grandma. She protected me from my brother. When my grandfather was home, she’d send me back home, to protect me from him.

I had a very difficult time when we moved out to the country.

I started to ‘miss the bus’, so I could walk to Grandma’s house after school. It made my parents furious, and they made sure I knew it. I didn’t mind very much. Grandma cleared a drawer in her dresser for me, so I’d have clothes for the nights they let her keep me.

Shortly after she died, I casually referred to her as Jewish. My mother spun toward me angrily and asked me why I would say something like that. I told her that Grandma and I were Jewish; I told her about our rituals and rules.

She told me that none of it had ever happened – I’d imagined it all. She told me to stop telling stories about her mother, and slammed her bedroom door shut.

My brothers and I were at Grandma’s for dinner. She was cooking corned beef, so I got the plates from the meat cabinet. She quietly, gently guided me back to the cabinet. I asked her why; she whispered in my ear that these plates are just for us. She helped me get on my steppy stool to get the plates from the upper cabinet instead.

After dinner, Adam and Noah had ice cream. I asked her, since we didn’t use the meat places, do we still have to wait to have ice cream? She said that was up to me. I thought very hard for a minute, and then said that I could wait. She smiled and scooped me into her lap, whispering that we could have some later, after the boys were asleep..

I remember very little of my grandfather.

Some days, when he was in one of his moods, Grandma and I would sit on the floor in the bathroom. We would bring snacks and pillows, and look for shapes in the marbling in the plastic tiles on the wall. We would wait there until we could hear his car leave the driveway.

On a particularly bad day, he is seated at the kitchen table, and Grandma hands him a bowl of chili. He yells at her, and then eats the chili very loudly.

He tells me to get some cheese for his chili, and I tell him he can’t put cheese on it, ‘cause there’s meat in it. He stands up so quickly he knocks over his chili, and turns toward Grandma. She ushers me outside and whispers in my ear that it’s not my fault and not to worry.

Outside, I can hear him yelling at her.

/// I told you to keep that kike shit out of my house

Another day, I’m playing with my Batmobile in the living room. Grandma told me to be careful, and I was trying. But I push it too hard and it heads right for his foot. My entire body is electricity as I chase it.

It hits him.

He screams and stands up. I forget how to breathe.

He breaks it in half.

I scramble to get away, but he grabs my arm and lifts me in the air.

I don’t meant to, but I kick him. He drops me. I’m on the floor crying, apologizing, too afraid to run.

Grandma steps between us and tells me to hide, her hand gently on my shoulder.

He tries to chase me, but she blocks him.

I hide.

I hear him hitting her, and I know it’s my fault. I wasn’t careful enough. I’m ashamed of myself for hiding.

I hide for six hours until my mother gets home from work. Grandma hugs me. She tells me it’s not my fault, and I did a good job of hiding.

My mother drops me off at home, while she takes Grandma to get three pins in her forearm and a new pair of glasses.

A few years after Grandma died, I asked my mother why Grandma would have told me we were Jewish, if we weren’t. My mother told me that maybe Grandma had been Jewish, when she still lived with her mother. But she was Christian when she died, so she’s in heaven now. I tell her Grandma was only Seventh Day Adventist, so she could keep Shabbos. She corrects me. “Sabbath.” I tell her Grandma called it Shabbos. She ignores me.

She told me that Grandma has immigrated with her mother when she was very young, too young to remember much. I asked where she was born. Not sure. When did they immigrate? Not sure. Where from? Eastern Europe, not really sure. But she could ask the cousins in New York.

Until that moment, I had not known about the cousins in New York.

My mother said she would try to get in touch with them, but it might be hard. I asked why Grandma would’ve left her family to move here. My grandfather. He had destroyed all of Grandma’s legal documents. She’s been forced to change her name, and not been allowed to know her family. My mother had never met my grandmother, and didn’t even know her name.

I tried to ask more questions, but she went to her room and closed the door behind her.

I followed up with my mother about the cousins in New York. She denied ever having mentioned them.

That same week, she told me that I would be Baptized Seventh Day Adventist I cried and told her that I didn’t want to. I told her that I didn’t believe it. She told me that I would go to hell. I told her that baptism only works if you believe in it. She cried. When my father got home, he hit me for making my mother cry.

The pastor had enough sense not to baptize someone against their will.

Aside from the time I’d leaned against the floor and fell down the stairs, we were never allowed in the basement at Grandma’s house – and even that time, my grandfather had hit me for it.

After my grandfather died, Grandma had all of his things taken out of the basement.

Once we were alone, we went down together. She had me pull some loose stones out of the wall, and she dug out a box. Upstairs, she took everything out, each piece having its own moment in her hands.

I’d never seen her cry before.

She put a dusty scarf around each of our necks. She opened the Torah, and put her hands on its pages. I asked her to read it to me, but she couldn’t remember how.

We put the mezuzah in the doorframe.

She put the rest back in the box, and hid it in her closet.

We took down the gold-framed white Jesus and put him in the closes in the back bedroom.

I asked Grandma why we can’t turn on the lights on Saturdays, save for when we ‘accidentally’ bump into the touch lamp. She says it’s because we’re Jewish. I asked her how she’s Jewish, if my parents are Christian. She laughs and says, “my mother – your great grandmother – was a Jew.”

I ask her where her mom was, and she points to a photo on the wall above the TV. I ask her what I am. She says, “that’s up to you,” and kisses my forehead.

Every spring, we spent days cleaning the entire house. We took it very seriously. No crumbs in any corners of any cabinets. She checked over all of my work, and I almost always had to redo it. She was never mad, even though I was never any good at cleaning, and I’m sure it took twice as long to let me ‘help’. It was serious work, but it felt playful and joyful to be so tedious together.

Every year, I asked if there were any more cookies. Not until next week, she’d say. Every year, I checked the cookie jar again, just to be sure. Nevermind that we’d already washed it. She always laughed.

I never expected there to be any cookies;
I just loved to hear her laugh.

I opened my bedroom door, ready for school. My mother was there. She wasn’t supposed to be; she was taking care of Grandma, while she was sick.

“She’s dead. My mother is dead.” She forced me into a hug, taking my comfort. She wailed – loudly. For several minutes, she sobbed about how she’d never get to see her mother again. After some time, I said, “you said she was going to get better, and I could go stay with her again.”

She pushed me away, chocking on her tears, telling me how selfish of me it was to bring up something she had said to comfort me. She told me how terrible it had been to have to know her mother was dying, to watch it happen, so I didn’t have to. She told me that she never lied to me, because I’ll see Grandma again in heaven.

Jews don’t believe in heaven.

I didn’t know all of the rules, but I knew when someone dies, you’re supposed to sit around their house for a week. I told my mother that I wanted to go to Grandma’s house. She said that I would never go back there.

I told her that I wanted to go to school. She told me there’s something wrong with me. Her friend, Cookie, was right – I have a demon in me. I had no heart; it was selfish of me to leave my mother alone when she was grieving. I am evil.

After school, I missed the bus.

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do once I got there. I sat in Grandma’s spot and waited for my parents to pick me up.

The next day, I missed the bus again.

And the next. There were people there, this time, arguing. I watched them take our scarves and throw the box from her closet into the dumpster.

I hid I the bathroom and looked for pictures in marbling I the plastic tiles on the walls.

I didn't cry at her funeral

After Adam shot me, he started treatment, and my parents started practicing my lies with me. My little brother moved in half-time with our aunt and half time with my dad’s parents.

I moved in with my grandma.

She should not have had to raise a child alone at that stage in her life, but she loved me and would have done absolutely anything to keep me safe.

She had no money at all, but she made sure I always had food, even when she didn’t have enough.

She bought me Pokemon cards as often as she could, and even pretended to like them, too.

She couldn’t drive, but she made she I got to go home to visit my dog, and she made sure I got back home to her safely. She made sure I got to see my friends, and that their parents were good to me.

We danced in the living room, even though it hurt her joints.

We did crossword puzzles and ate popcorn together nearly every day.

I started to feel safe.

After four years with her, she got sick, and I had to move back home. I got to visit her some, but rarely got to stay overnight. Several weeks before her death, my mother moved in with Grandma, and moved all of my things back home. She told me that Grandma didn’t want to see me anymore, and it wasn’t fair to keep asking.

When I tried calling, my mother or my grandma’s nurse would hang up the phone.

I was home alone, and we got a call from my grandma’s house. I assumed it was my mother, and almost didn’t answer.

It was Grandma. My mom had run an errand and forgotten the phone by Grandma’s bed.

She couldn’t talk for long., but she wanted me to know that she missed me, and she wanted to see me, but my mother wouldn’t let her.

She made sure I knew that it wasn’t my fault.

Talking was difficult for her, and we didn’t say very much, but we stayed on the phone, until my mother got back to her house.

We whispered our goodbyes.

Other than those brief conversations with my family, I didn’t talk about Grandma for something like eighteen years. I almost never thought about her. I made myself forget. I wish I hadn’t. Anything good in me, I got from her.

I would've been better off without my parents, I think.

They made me believe the worst things about myself. I am bad, absolutely and irredeemably so. Not because I’m autistic, but also because of that. Not because I’m queer, but certainly also because of that.

Being their child meant that I had to hide myself and hurt myself. They taught me that everyone else’s pain is my fault, and that I should punish myself for it.

They taught me to be fearful and ashamed. They taught me to be selfish, to withhold affection, to lash out when I’m angry.

They taught me to be kind of an asshole, honestly.

My grandma taught me to do my best to keep the peace, but to hold my ground when I believed in something.

She taught me to feed people until they’ve had their fill at dinner, and to send some cheesecake home with them after.

She taught me to make room for my big feelings, and to hold onto the good ones for as long as I could.

She taught me to be attentive to the needs of others, even when it’s hard.

She taught me to be honest and generous and kind, and To love with my whole heart, without hesitation or regret.

She taught me how to be silly and playful,
and to laugh every chance I get.