Quinn Flores’s Family Journal
I remember the soft voices of older women, my grandmothers, Asuka and Nicki.
Now that Dimitri and I are getting older, I have greater appreciation for my memories of my grandmothers.
When I worry about Dimitri working out on the punching bag, which he’s doing now, as I write this–I can hear the swop, swop, swop of each punch–I remember that my grandmothers worked out every day, several times a day, in fact. We could be in the middle of a conversation, and they’d drop to do ten push-ups or twenty sit-ups. Nothing to it!
I loved the sound of their voices, not only in conversation, but in singing. Grandma Nicki loved to sing, not only when she was cooking or washing dishes, but to Asuka. She would serenade her with the sweetest love song. Sometimes, not often, but now and then, I’ll sing that same song to Dimitri.
Grandma Nicki retired soon after she moved in, so she was always around and always eager to spend time with me.
She was the one, not my mom, who taught me to play piano, which seems ironic, since it was my mom who was the concert pianist, and, as Grandma Nicki said, “very possibly the greatest living classical musician.”
But Mom had little tolerance for uneven tempi or wrong notes.
Mom and I discovered that we could spend time together playing dolls. It was something Mom always loved to do with her kids, and I found that, through the dolls, I could almost communicate with her. She would never yell at me when we were playing dolls.
But with Grandma Nicki, communication was always easy. I could tell her anything. I didn’t always understand her responses, but I could ask, and she would try to explain in a way that made sense to me.
Both of my grandmas were the reason that I started my yoga practice as a child.
When they taught me the poses, they encouraged me to tune into how each one felt.
“You’ll see,” Grandma Nicki would say, “you can discover everything you need to know to make it through life gracefully, and with resilience, through your yoga practice.”
I loved to draw pictures for both of my grandmothers, but for Grandma Nicki, especially, because she treasured each one, even if the colors blended in unintentional ways and the macaroni crumbled.
We often used to have parties and gatherings. My aunt Rosemary, Dad’s sister, would come over, and so would the Yorks, old family friends from way back when my great-great grandmother lived in the city.
A houseful of friends, family, and neighbors was often too much for Grandma Asuka, who would look for any excuse to dash upstairs into a quiet room, but Grandma Nicki loved talking with others.
I still remember the way she had of listening. She could make you feel like, right then, you were the only person who mattered, and what you had to say was the most important topic at that moment. I’ve tried to draw on that strength in my counseling work or when mentoring grad students. I’m quite sure I don’t come close to achieving that quality of care and attention that came naturally to her, but if I even approach it somewhat, then what I have to share will help and be a gift.
I remember one time when Grandma Nicki decided to appeal one of the community bylaws. Before we moved in, the community had passed a declaration that our district was a “get-high-free” zone, where illegal drug use was allowed (or even encouraged, as a means of “keeping users safe”) and public intoxication was almost sanctioned.
When Grandma Nicki moved in and learned of this practice, she was upset. “This is no environment for a child,” she said. So, she took it upon herself to appeal the practices and enforce stricter controls.
I remember her going around with a clipboard to get signatures.
My mom refused to sign.
“It was like this before we moved in,” she argued. “What right do we have to change local customs? We need to adapt, accommodate, or move somewhere else.”
But of course Grandma Nicki didn’t give up.
She went into the plaza and asked everyone she met.
She even got our friend Anaya convinced, and then Anaya joined her in gathering signatures.
They repealed the declaration. Public drug-use and public drunkenness stopped, and the Spice District became a safe place for kids, teens, and young adults. It’s still safe that way, and we have my grandma Nicki to thank for it.
Grandma Nicki inspired me to be a writer, too. I wrote so much when I was a child. Since college, all of my writing has been academic–and there has been enough writing of that type for a lifetime–but when I was a child that gift of imaginative writing, of weaving stories, creating characters, and building worlds, that came from Grandma Nicki, who was a best-selling author, herself.
I’m not a grandma yet, but maybe I’ll be lucky enough to be one in the next decade or so–or maybe I’ll be a grandma-like auntie to my younger brothers’ kids one day. But I hope that when I do become one–if I do–that I can be that type of steady, stable, nurturing support that my grandmothers were for me.
Cathy Tea's SimLit Anthology 