Inherited Bruises

Soft orange lights, old, musty pillows with that dumb ass paisley print, and lamps. Maybe there’s a faint smell of tobacco and mint. There are cookies, definitely chocolate chip cookies, on a chipped plate. The carpet is ugly and old, probably mauve, but somehow still feels warm and welcoming. The news plays quietly in the background. An older woman with white curls and a gentle smile sits nearby.

What does that make you think of?

Maybe it reminds you of your grandma’s house as a kid, or a kind neighbor who babysat you sometimes and felt like a second grandma.

That’s what it makes me think of, but not because I have that memory. I want to be that memory.

My own experience was very different.

I have beautiful memories of visiting my grandparents. We’d leave our small brown apartment and ride in the back of my dad’s rickety brown truck for forty-five minutes to their house by the lake, surrounded by fifteen acres. There were endless trails, mushroom hunting, horseshoes, and volleyball.

There was a giant swing we played on. My cousins and I made up a game called pilot, where we would just tell each other what state we wanted to go to, and the pilot would take us there. I don’t know why it was so fun, but it was. There was a huge shelter house for our picnics. We spent every outdoor holiday there, plus countless summer and fall weenie roasts. For us, it was like a vacation spot.

We often stayed overnight, but not in the house. Hell no. We slept in tents and used the outhouse. That was the only way Grandma would allow it.

These memories are beautiful and make up a big part of my childhood.

The strange thing is that the good memories of those days don’t really include my grandparents themselves.

My grandpa was a small, quiet man and always a mystery to me. He had a tattoo of a naked woman on his arm, and we knew his whole family of ten died in a fire except for him, one brother, and his dad. Besides those things, I knew nothing about him. He never actually spoke to any of us.

My grandma was tall and mean and always wore purple plaid button up shirts with khaki pants. If she spoke to you, it was probably to yell at you for stepping on a flower or trying to sneak into her house to use a real bathroom. My mom, aunt, and uncle would sit with her all day, most likely feeling tense about what she might say. They kept a close eye on us kids, making sure we had a good time, as long as it wasn’t too close to Grandma.

As I grew up, I started to notice other things.

Sometimes my mom would cry on the way there and ask my dad to turn around. When I was about twelve, when girls start to change, I was told I couldn’t wear shorts to Grandma’s house anymore. We had to cover up completely. And I mean cover the fuck up.

There was no swimming at grandma’s lake house. It was unheard of.

I eventually learned that my grandpa didn’t talk to us because he wasn’t allowed to even look at us. He couldn’t make eye contact with his daughters, and if he glanced toward his sons’ wives, Grandma would send him inside after a harsh, embarrassing lecture about being a pervert.

He would just walk off silently with his head down.

Our parents tried hard to hide all this from us, but as we got older, it became impossible to miss. When the boys in the family started bringing girlfriends, the family gatherings stopped because Grandma didn’t want them around for my grandpa to look at. I remember hearing the word “ogle” a lot.

After that, my mom and aunt started hosting instead.

I don’t know why my grandma was the way she was, since she never shared anything about her childhood. There’s plenty of speculation, of course there is, but we’ll never really know, and I won’t talk about things I have no proof of.

My mom didn’t inherit this trait, but I developed a shadow of that jealousy toward other women, and I noticed it early. If my high school boyfriend glanced at another girl, anger would flare up, sparking arguments that left me in tears, confused by my own feelings, knowing I was wrong but feeling so deeply scarred. It took until my mid-thirties to realize I could change, to understand this wasn’t who I wanted to be.

I’ve had to fight this battle for years, and I’m close to overcoming it. The intensity my grandma had isn’t there, nor the more insane parts that I’ll never understand. I’ve never been jealous of my daughters, family, or my sons’ girlfriends or my daughters’ friends. The very idea of that is wild to me.

Still, it lingers in a different way, a way that has affected many relationships, and I hate that.

I’m far from perfect. Even after years of battling my grandma’s demons, which I suppose are now my own, sometimes I catch my partner glancing at another woman and feel a rage rise inside me. I want to scream or blame myself for not being enough. But I’ve grown. I understand it’s human to notice beauty, to feel attraction, and it doesn’t mean I am less than or unworthy of love.

I mean, shit, I’m attracted to these women as well, along with countless men. (What up, Idris Elba?)

It’s scary how some things get passed down. My parents shielded me from most of Grandma’s outbursts, but somehow, I was cursed with a part of it, inherited in some weird genetic way.

As for my other grandparents, I saw my dad’s mom about twice a year, once after Christmas and once in the summer. She didn’t give a hoot about us. My paternal grandpa was a taxi driver in New York City and only met my dad once. All I know is that he was Greek and liked to fish.

My mom poured her energy into being nothing like her own mother. She filled our lives with kindness, hugs and kisses, festive decorations, and cherished traditions.

Now, with more than thirty grandchildren and great-grandchildren, I can honestly say she succeeded. The kids adore her. She plays on the floor with them as babies, makes grilled cheese and cookies for them as kids, and cries with them through tough times as teens and adults. She goes to every game and event she can, and she doesn’t have a trace of her mother’s spiteful, cold personality.

I don’t know how you top that, but I’m gonna damn well try. If given the opportunity to be a grandmother (not for several more years please and thanks), I want to be the soft, smiling kind who bakes bread and cookies, who plays Elvis late into the night. Of course, I’ll also throw in some Pearl Jam and show them G’ma was a fuckin rocker.

I’ll watch their favorite shows, make them extra chocolatey hot chocolate with butt loads of marshmallows, play with them at the pool, buy them clothes their parents can’t afford, and when they’re adults, I’ll join them for a glass of wine. Most importantly, we will laugh and laugh and fuckin laugh.

Unlike my grandma who gave my mom nothing to pass on, I’ve started many traditions with my kids that I know they’ll carry on, like making everyone wait until I finish a full cup of coffee before opening gifts on Christmas morning. This is one I took from my dad, and I hope it lasts for many generations to come.

We hug each other even when we’re mad.

We give flowers to our neighbors on Mother’s Day.

These are things my grandmother never would have done because she was simply too bitter and unhappy.

At the end of the day, the love, kindness, and humility my parents taught me far outweigh anything negative I got from my grandma.

And lastly, I hope she finally found some peace.

Peace from her demons in her life here on earth.

It couldn’t have been easy to live that way.

We can break the cycle.

🖤— GC