Romans & histoires Grandparent Stories

A life spent looking backwards misses all the beauty that lies in front of it. Your parents aren’t perfect. You might have realize this. But you’re pretty darn smart. So, like I said before, we have to forgive ourselves or the coulda, woulda, shoulda, fear and anxiety will creep into a crack of our weaknesses, and overcome us. Please know we’re not perfect, and we will never claim to be. Our personal journeys have stories to tell. THAT’S for sure. When it comes time for stories, though, talk to me first… because chances are your father’s are going to be inappropriate. HA!

In 1890, my great-grandmother Takoda was only a child when her ancestors told her stories while they huddled around the campfire with handmade blankets from buffalo hide. Later, she told my mother the same stories about humans who could walk on all fours and pale skins and drink your blood. Nowadays, no one talks about the past, which leads us to believe they are just scary stories the tribe elders tell for fun or to put fear into the youngsters so we won’t enter the woods outside our borders. However, I believe nothing they say. But my grandmother does and never lets my family forget it. I usually get grounded for laughing at her, thinking she’s a crazy old woman.

A tear slipped my eye when I imagined a seven-year-old boy with green eyes crying over his parents' fights and running in the woods tonight to his grandparent's house, just to get a semblance of peace. Harper reluctantly moved forward and cupped my cheek to wipe away the tear and I let him. I leaned into his touch and after a few seconds, he slowly withdrew his hand away. "I know my grandparents had a rocky relationship too and my great-grandparents before that. Stories like these aren't a secret. Everyone in the pack knows them but they are chicken to say anything about it."

'' I asked again, and she smiled and took her seat. ''When I was a little girl, my grandma used to tell me stories about the taking. And it always sounded so scary, like the underworld was this dangerous place where no one wanted to be. But I guess not.'' She paused, and I nodded to her to indicate that I was listening. Then she could go on. ''When I was about your age, I think younger, maybe 19, 20, 21, I'm not so sure. My father called me and told me a story. The story of the Mitch family's success.''

He claps his hand on my shoulder and leads me into the living room. We sit down, and Grandpa Nick proceeds to tell me the biggest bullshit fairy tale anyone could possibly imagine. He goes on about werewolves and packs and goddesses and transformations. I know I’m not the smartest kid, but the cheese has slid completely off this guy’s cracker if he thinks I could believe all this crap.

About suya sold on late evenings, smoky and spicy. “You haven’t lived until you have argued about whose jollof is superior,” he said seriously. She laughed. “I feel like that is a very passionate topic.” “It is. Deeply political.” She shook her head, smiling. He spoke about family structure— how elders were greeted first, how respect wasn’t optional but woven into everyday life. About storytelling traditions where grandparents gathered children at night to tell folktales filled with lessons. “My grandmother,” he added thoughtfully, “was the best storyteller.”

Presumably, whatever the story she would tell, wouldn't be good. "Let me tell you the story of Loren Brooks, your grandmother's mother."

Which indirectly all of that was followed by his children and grandchildren, including me. My grandfather had a hobby of telling stories, he liked to tell me stories of wars and national struggles, especially in the Bandung and West Java areas, almost every day while sitting on my grandfather's lap, I listened to all of his stories, I was under five years old, for me all my grandfather's stories cool, to the point that I fell asleep tired of hearing it. Almost all the stories about the establishment of the Siliwangi Cimahi Bandung battalion, his grandfather was a firm man and he had a rattan broom that was usually smacked against his grandson, who was not obnoxious and wayward.

"Great-Grandma, when do we start our special time? Can we look at old photo albums?" "This Saturday, if your parents approve. We'll start with your great-great-grandfather Romano, who came to America with nothing but determination and a belief that families should take care of each other." "Did he have adventures like we did?" I thought about my grandfather's stories of building a business while navigating immigration, discrimination, and the challenge of staying honest in a world that rewarded corners cutting.

I didn’t know what his intensions were. “Wait! The story I told you about, my great grandfather was the chief at that time. He was asked by the oracle to tell the story to his son, and to the next generation, until my generation. What I didn't know was that the story was true, and that the day you left, it all started to come to place” “You are crazy, but I’ll play. What do you mean by that?” I wanted to see how long it was going to take him to continue with his diabolical stories.