I'd like to tell you all a story about my grandmother.
My grandparents raised their children, four girls (one of them my mother), to be fighters. My aunts marched in Washington for women's rights with babies strapped to their chests and like to joke that all of the grandchildren who came from that line (including myself) were born with picket signs in their hands.
But it started with my grandparents. They fought hard for what they believed in. They marched against Vietnam. They marched for Martin Luther King. They marched for women's rights. They marched for a better future.
But let's talk specifically about my grandmother for a moment.
My grandmother unfortunately passed away in 2016. She had to watch the first Trump election and did so knowing that it would probably be the last election she'd ever see. And there is some argument there that she could have given in to fear and defeatism. She could have decided none of it was worth it, and she could have decided that fascism had won and the world was over.
But she did something else instead.
To give some context, my grandparents had friends who were Republicans. I say were, because they shifted from the normal Republican towards the MAGA Republican we see today. And despite a very clear message from my family about how we felt, they were more than ready to still come to the funeral as if everything was normal. Like their beliefs were normal. Like they were welcome to celebrate someone who had fought so hard for the rights of other people.
These were people who would have absolutely used their rhetoric to scream and shout if they were left out or disinvited.
And so my grandmother, even past her final moments, pulled the most brilliant, petty move I've ever seen.
She'd decided ahead of time that everyone who had known her was more than welcome to attend but that she wanted everyone attending the funeral to donate money. That was the requirement to be invited. And so everyone did just that. There was no talk about what the donations were for, just that they were appreciated. I want to say that the assumption was the money would help pay for funeral expenses and give the family some support while we grieved.
Except that wasn't the case.
Because in those final moments of the funeral, the rabbi stepped forward to thank everyone, and then very cheerfully announced;
"Arlene was so happy to know just how many people were coming to join us here today. She couldn't have been more proud of her family. And I'm sure she would have been elated to see just how much money you all gave today to Planned Parenthood."
When I say that the faces of those people are enshrined in my memory, I mean it. The anger, the devastation, the rage, the betrayal. It was an absolutely gorgeous display of true defeat at the hands of a boss ass old lady who literally fought with her last breath and threw up both middle fingers all the way out the door.
What I'm saying is this.
It is very easy to feel defeated. It is very easy to think that everything is over, and there's nothing left for us to do. It's very easy to say that fascism won, that fear won, that hate won.
But that's only true if you let it be true.
There is always more that we can do. There is a future that is still worth fighting for. And it's more than possible, even when it doesn't seem like it.
And fighting is going to look different every time.
Some days it will look like picket signs in our hands.
Some days it will look like spending time with friends and family and people you love and knowing that you have a community that supports you and your vision of a brighter future.
And some days, it's pulling absolute natural level 20 petty trickster shit even after you've left the world.
Because you can always make an impact and you can always add a little brightness to life, and if that means tricking a group of MAGA idiots into throwing their money behind Planned Parenthood in the middle of your own goddamn funeral then that's what it means.
Keep fighting. People have done it before you. People will continue to do it after you.
And enjoy the little victories.
(Even the petty ones)
This entire thread has me feeling very weepy and nostalgic for the both of them so I'm letting all my feelings out here (mostly because in times like these I miss them so fucking much).
So here are a few fun facts about my grandparents.
- My Papa was from Brooklyn. He played basketball as a teenager. His nose was permanently crooked because he broke it twice shooting hoops.
- When he wasn't playing basketball, he was reading. He kept a record (that one of my aunts still has) of every book he read in his local library. Which ended up being every book in that library. In alphabetical order.
- My Gramma was born in Manhatten. The two of them are born and bred New Yorkers who were not afraid to be loud and opinionated. I'm third generation New Yorker and ridiculously proud of that fact as well.
- My Gramma had a boyfriend when she met my Papa. She broke up with him in a phone booth with my Papa next to her. Apparently they couldn't not be together. They just knew and they were almost never apart.
- My Gramma was a model when she was young and became a teacher afterwards. They got married at 19 and 20 but wouldn't live together until after both of them became educated. Education was the most important part of life to both of them.
- My Papa was a psychologist. He taught himself three different languages and traveled the world teaching psychology in all three languages. He was doing this when he wasn't part of the peace corps.
- One of the best things he ever told me was "excrement is the waste of the body, laughter is the waste of the soul, and tears are the waste of the heart"
- He also told me that sometimes everyone needs to just go outside and scream. Cursing is a bonus.
- My Gramma was an incredible cook who took classes everywhere she traveled. China, Mexico, Spain, France, Italy, everywhere; she was committed to learning how to cook from the people whose culture the food came from. I went traveling with them more than once, and it wasn't a surprise to see a chef come out of the kitchen to give her a hug, no matter what country we were in. They all knew and loved and respected her. I miss her cooking every day. (Thankfully we have an entire book of recipes with pictures of them written down that each member of the family has. It's a prized possession).
- My grandparents fought like hell for a better future. They fought for LGBTQ+ rights, for immigration, against racial injustice and for women's autonomy. I could go on but the list would take a while. They made sure that my aunts marched. And then I marched with my aunts when I was just a baby, and then a young kid, and then a teen, and I still march with them now that I've grown up. And it's because of them. They were two people who could always see hope in the world because they'd watched the cycle of good and bad and held firm throughout.
They'd be so proud of everyone who is also holding firm. Who is dedicated to education. Who spends time cooking warm meals with friends, who learns languages and spreads knowledge and travels and takes time to learn about other people and other cultures and other places and is always leaving a seat open at the table no matter what.
That's what they'd do. They'd leave a seat at their table empty for you. And so will I.
And they'd also tell you to please enjoy life while you do it. Because fighting is hard and necessary. But so is laughter and joy. And even in the worst of times there was never a shortage of it between them.
