The Art of Being Disowned

When you're a boy, all it takes is joining the Army. 

When you're a man, all it takes is starting your own family.  

When you're a family member, all it takes is unintentional disappointment.

For me, 

When I was 12, all it took was a letter defending my family.

Now, over 30, all it takes is repetition.

I wasn't aware of my grandmother's resentment toward my parents until I was twelve. 

I never really had much of the "grandparent experience".  My maternal grandmother, "Maw Maw", died of cancer when I was like six or seven.  And, even though I spent a lot of time with her, I have fuzzy memories.  As for my maternal grandfather, well...I remember my mom taking my brothers and me to the nursing home for rare visits. Walking down the institutional hallways, I remember her warning us not to talk to his roommate. And, we never stayed very long.  I later learned we were visiting a mental hospital.  At some point after Maw Maw died, he moved into her house, his house, and we were right next door.  The warnings to stay away certainly made me scared of him.  I didn't know why I was supposed to stay away, but I obeyed.  He died when I was eleven.  I don't remember the cause and I couldn't tell you where he is buried.

My dad is from Cleveland, where my paternal grandfather, a WWII veteran, died of a heart attack before my eldest brother was born. My paternal grandmother, Gram - as she likes to be called - is still alive and kicking, and she's been kicking her family in the nuts.

The first visit to Cleveland that I remember was around age seven or eight, when the five of us piled into the family Jeep Cherokee and my dad would drive a straight 19-hour run from Louisiana to Ohio. If anybody had to pee, it had to wait until the Jeep needed refueling.  Damn that 20-gallon tank. 

Other than that, my contact with Gram was mostly me avoiding being handed the phone when she called - or any older relative, for that matter. I would be casually walking by and would hear my dad ask, "Oh, do you want to talk to Cathy? Here she is!" as I would look horrified and try to escape the awkwardly boring conversation to be had. What grade are you in now? How do you like school? Are you staying out of trouble? (That's not what your parents told me.) Do you miss your Grandma?  Thankfully, those calls were pretty rare, because in the 1980's long distance phone calls cost about $100 per minute.

my fantasy

But, one December, because we had a new house, Gram came to see us.  I remember anticipating her arrival and bragging to my friends at school that she would be there when I got home, and she was "probably baking me cookies".  You know, cause that what Grandmas do.  I was eight.  I watched a lot of family shows like Cosby, Full House, and Growing Pains and had great expectations.


 There were no cookies.

my reality

Years later, I heard her recount that trip to my dad.  She complained about how bored she was and disappointed that everyone was either at work or school during her visit.  "Everyone had their own life, no room for Gram".  My dad argued that she was well aware of our schedule before she chose her dates, but, as she pointed out, that was supposed to change once she arrived.  Another letdown, I suppose, in the series of letdowns my dad delivered.  You know, joining the Army out of high school, being stationed in the South, getting married and having kids.  Ugh, how inconsiderate!  Not to mention his several attempts to move back to Cleveland in those early years and, ultimately, his permanent relocation to the tiny Ohio town where she moved (and where there are zero jobs) just to care for her. Yeah, he deserved her resentment.  I mean, any decent son would have crawled right back into her womb. To this day, when he sees her around town, she pretends not to recognize him.

When I was twelve, I wrote a mundane letter to her and was excited to read her reply.  I loved writing letters and receiving them.  (It was an early indication of my future facebook addiction.) But, I was shocked reading her words.  Completely unprovoked, she wrote that she was disappointed in my 14 year old brother's mental illness (what mental illness?), and that if only my mom hadn't fed him formula when he was a baby, he would be normal. WTF? I had no idea where that came from.  Even left-field shrugged its shoulders.

Well, Grams, I don't play that.

As much as my brothers and I would pummel each other in our spare time, I was still fiercely protective of my family. We were broken up enough, so I certainly didn't need some old lady starting shit.  I had zero qualms about getting into fist fights (unrecognized anger issues) or "talking back", as my parents and teachers would complain.  So, Grandma had it coming when I put pen to paper to defend my mom and brother.  Upon receipt of the letter, she called my dad and told him that I was never to write her again; I made her blood pressure elevate to dangerous levels and she was forced to get on medication.  Ooh, medical manipulation - what a great way to evoke guilt on an unquestionable level.

Somehow, by thirteen we were back on good terms.  But it was just a matter of time before I would be disowned for good.  Why? It doesn't matter when you're dealing with an irrational person.  And, I'm certainly not the only family member to go through this.  I join a long succession of people resented and disowned by her.  Honestly, the way I feel is that I have gone the majority of my life without her, so why bother putting up with the unnecessary bullshit, now?  There's no doubt I will feel terrible when she dies, but it will be for the loss of a grandparent experience I wished for, but not for what I had.  And for the family members scared of her, who have to disown all of us, too, if they are to stay in her good graces, what a sad waste of some good memories we could have shared.

Now, I'm realizing how I've set myself up for the possibility that my future children may be without their own grandparent experience - isolating myself several states away.  Maybe by the time it's an issue, I'll have it figured out.  I have to admit that it's hard not to be mad at any disappointment parents deliver.  But, I've certainly delivered my share and they love me through it all.  I guess that is one of the realizations you get as an adult; letting go of childhood resentments and understanding the sad child within your own parent and how they do the best they can with what they were given.  I bitch about my Grandma as a grandparent, but I'm sad to imagine her as a parent.

The best thing is that at thirty, I'm able to connect with the other lost family I never really knew. I know my dad and our family never "disowned" anyone, but at the same time, I don't remember sharing holidays or writing letters.  I love my Aunt Lynn and I'm getting to know my cousins, who are cool as hell.  I was talking to my brother recently about how we never knew them as children and how lucky we are to know them now.  And, as he puts it, "they are the most normal" members of our family, which tells you how good they are.  Who knew?  I'm glad I do.