Poetry and Prose

my hair twists
wraps in a bun
like my nonna's hair-
ankle length
blond and gray.
she braids her fountain of colors
every morning at 6:00 am
a dozen thick brown hairpins
holds her hair firmly in place.

i wander to the chain store
the mall exudes consumerism
i am here to consume.
A dress-
i tell the attractive
extra small
womyn.
my nonna says that's the key
to finding a good boy.
a skirt or dress
just above the knee
leaving the boys a little curious.

at 87 nonna still gardens in her navy dress
his death over 15 years ago
still showing the dead man respect.

She told me at age six that pants were evil-
god meant for womyn to wear dresses; boys pants.

The extra small
womyn
brings my size 12
disgust in her eyes.
i close the dressing room door
the light bright above
i close my eyes
shed my pants
my thrift store shirt peels itself
i peek in the mirror.

I was having dinner with some friends a few days ago, and the subject of Bonnie Morris's contribution to the Millennium Project came up. Professor Morris proposed that young people take up the task of recording the oral history of older people who had lived through pivotal times so that historical events often overlooked by mainstream historians remain in the cultural lore. The women I was with spoke of the personal history of their families, and how they wished they knew more about it. One woman lamented that she knew so little about her grandmother, and that she only realized it after her death. Another woman in the conversation concurred: although she was just eight years old when her grandmother died, she now wished there was some record of the woman's life experiences. The regret that these women expressed reflects, I think, the imminent deprivation our society will suffer if we don't rethink what is historically valuable and gather the wisdom that the older people around us have acquired.

My own appreciation of Morris's project, and of the value of everyday wisdom only became as explicit as it is because my grandmother died this past October. I was pretty sure that I knew her. She was a little old lady who lived in a senior's home and made catty jokes about the other little old ladies with her little old lady friends. When I was an adolescent I used to have to spend New Year's Eve with her while my parent's did something fun. We'd play Go-Fish and drink ginger ale. She was even a little old lady back then, or at least I thought so. And I would still think so, except that she died and I found out otherwise.

The night before her funeral I was enticed by Grandma's journals, in which she wrote every day from 1967 to 1992. From then on my conception of her and my entire family was altered. I had never even been curious to look at the series of little books before, and as far as I knew, no-one had ever read them. I found out through those journals that my grandmother was an extraordinary, energetic, brave, strong woman who endured unbelievable hardships and cared for others without a thought to pretension or recognition. She never learned to drive, lived out on a farm in the snow belt without any luxuries or even comforts, and after her husband died, lived on in those harsh conditions by herself for 21 years. As one would expect, many of her days were filled with the rather mundane tasks of country living. During the summer she grew tomatoes, picked currants and hung laundry on the line. In the winter she kept the bird feeder stocked, shoveled the front steps and trudged over snow drifts taller than she was just to get the mail. But laced among the record of these chores, there were a few events in particular that revealed the courageous woman inside the little old lady that I thought I knew.

One of those events was the death of her husband. Because my grandfather passed away before I was born, I never really knew anything about the relationship he and my grandmother had or the way he died. After reading Grandma's painfully detailed record of the days leading up to his final hospitalization, I was overwhelmed with the conception of the love the two shared, and the level of my grandmother's inner-strength. The fear that she felt in watching her husband of so many years die was palpable to me in her written words, and I felt an empathy with her that I never had while she was living—perhaps because such things can be too difficult to express out loud.

Of course, I then made a beeline for March 26, 1971, the day I was born. Back then, because of my father's job, my parents lived in Belgium. In her first ever trip outside North America, my Grandma flew over to Belgium to help my parents care for my older brother during the later part of my mom's pregnancy. She spent over three weeks playing with a two year old child! She clapped as he pedaled by in his race car, winced when he touched the stinging toadstools, and cried when he did a somersault off the kitchen counter. She chased him and swung him around like a helicopter, helped him color and read him books; an emotionally and physically exhausting experience for a woman near 60. And all that activity doesn't even include the week she spent with us following my birth! I don't think I'd have the energy for it now.

The things I learned about other relatives of mine multiplied the value of this book for me. I found out that my father, whom I always thought was too independent for sentimentality regarding his family, was closer to his father than either of his brothers. He was the son that Grandma most dreaded telling of Grandpa's illness, writing of the severe reaction he had had when Grandpa got injured in the fire department years before. Talking to my father about what I had read in Grandma's journal opened an entirely new discourse between my father and I that enabled us to deal more effectively with the feelings we were having about grandma's death and the death of my cousin's husband just a week before.

Reading Grandma's journals has definitely been the most valuable learning experience I've ever had, one that has had immediate impact on my life and will permanently influence the way I live and relate to others. Her diary gave me insight into the feelings and experiences that have produced the people I know as my family. It taught me about myself and how I'm connected to other people. The chronicle led me to understanding that all lives are a profound series of experiences, both good and bad—strangely, some both, like the one that led me to the discovery of Grandma's writing. The development of this consciousness of connectedness must be one of the most important benefits of the collection and study of history.

Special Thanks

The Women's Studies Program would like to thank alumna Doris Fichtner for donating many of her books to our library. We are always trying to expand our collection and welcome her thoughtful consideration. Such donations enrich our ability to provide resources for students and visitors.

If you would like to donate books or other materials to the Women's Studies Program at GW, please contact our program office at 202-994-6942.