My Mumah

 

"Fairy tales do not tell children that dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children that dragons can be killed."   ~ G.K. Chesterton

I cast on my grandmother the light of hope. She was a vision of hope. She was evidence of hope.

Cornel West wrote this about Hope:

Optimism tends to be based on the notion that there's enough evidence out there to believe things are gonna be better, much more rational, deeply secular, whereas hope looks at the evidence and says, "It doesn't look good at all. Doesn't look good at all. Gonna go beyond the evidence to create new possibilities based on visions that become contagious to allow people to engage in heroic actions always against the odds, no guarantee whatsoever." That's hope. I'm a prisoner of hope, though. Gonna die a prisoner of hope.

My Grandmother was a stone angel. Compassionate and unbending in her moral code. She was hope on wave riding from continent to continent.

My grandmother recently passed away. To her kids and grandkids she was Mumah. What I loved the most about her was that she was utterly and apologetically human. I respected and loved this woman. She was internally and intentionally righteous. She set her moral compass and walked towards it with unflinching dignity.   I didn't always like her, I didn't always want her around. I didn't always appreciate what she had to say or her opinions about me or the world but she gave me a blueprint for how to be a strong woman. She was a survivor. She was a right proper bitch. She was the moon at its brightest highest point.

She was ornery, principled, opinionated, and obnoxious. As a grandmother she was a little distant but that is only because she had things to teach me that were more important than sweetness and sugar. She was born in her mother's bed. She knows what year she was born because someone told her and she had to remember. She was raised cutting sugar cane with a machete. She had to be brutal and careful all in one swing or risk loss of limb and income to her 8 brothers and sisters. My grandmother slept on wood floors then mattresses filled with with straw and hay. She married young for love and raised 6 boys while helping to run a store and a home.

When the Europeans arrived in Jamaica they worked the native population (Arawak Indians) to death and then began importing Africans who were better suited for hard labor. This worked out until the british empire decided to abolish slavery. When the slave masters received word that they were to emancipate the slaves they decided that the only freedom they would grant the slaves would be spiritual. During the night they burned the slaves quarters. Some slaves ran. Some didn't wake in time. Some saw the flames of other slave quarters and were ghosts before the flames were set. 

My Mumah told me real stories mixed with fantasies. She told me tales of Brother Anansi and all the tricks he played to get the things he wanted.  She told me about mistresses and witches and holy men and dreamers. My grandmother told me stories about mystical things not to stoke my imagination but to guide it. She told me horrific and graphic tales of Jamaican folk heroes so that their names would become second nature to me. She wanted me to be spirited with a purpose. 

 My childhood was significantly easier than my grandmother's but she knew that my journey would still be difficult. When my time came she knew I would need to have the self awareness and self preparedness to stand up against all that life would throw at me. 

Black, Female, First Generation, and ultimately gay. She knew that there is a secret joy and gladness in being of Jamaican stock. She knew that I was born with a crown but that the shine of that glory had to be earned.

Ossie Davis once said:

"We can't float through life. We can't be incidental or accidental. We must fix our gaze on a guiding star as soon as one comes upon the horizon and once we have attached ourselves to that star we must keep our eyes on it and our hands upon the plow. It is the consistency of the pursuit of the highest possible vision that you can find in front of you that gives you the constancy, that gives you the encouragement, that gives you the way to understand where you are and why it's important for you to do what you can do." 

My grandmother gave me a vision of being better. Better than what? Better than her. Better than my parents. Better than my share croping great-grandparents. Better than my shoe making grand-father. Not better in dollars. . .but better in the way I own my humanity.  I have the privilege of carrying the flame left on the backs of those slaves who could not make it out.  I have their courage to stand on. Everything I am is an interesting combination of a romantic optimistic ability to survive anything and a fearless desire to unleash all of the empathy I feel for those still wallowing in injustice.  

My grandmother was a grand beautiful silent breach of decorum. When she passed I didn't feel sad because I wasn't worried about her. I wasn't concerned that she hadn't done the things she needed to do. I wasn't anxious that she had unfinished business left to complete. My grandmother lived every day in a manner that held her accountable for her time. Now, that is something I can be proud of.  My grandmother will be buried in her homeland near her family. She will be laid to rest in the land that gave her the stories and the beauty she instilled in me. . . .