Letters from Grenada

Do you remember when I was 16 and going to Hawaii? You told me about the Honolulu Santiagos, your cousins who left Puerto Rico as teens, like you did. Except they went to Hawaii instead of New York. They’d heard, you said, about the pineapple. You said I should look them up.

But Grandpa, I said, will they believe that this white girl is related to them? Back then I didn’t even speak Spanish. You raised both of your wrinkly eyebrows at me. Are you saying… that Puerto Ricans are black?

I almost laughed, but managed to keep it down to a snort. No, Grandpa. I’m saying that I look like a gringa.

Ah. Well. Yes. That is true.

You told me more about your cousins, the Hawaii Santiagos, but I don’t remember any of the details. I’m sorry about that. While I was on Oahu I got out the phone book and discovered hundreds of Santiagos listed. Nice, I thought. It’s a common name in many places, but this was ridiculous. (In the Grenada phone book, there are zero Santiagos. Jack and I are the only ones on the island and we can’t be bothered with land lines.)

I’m not shy, exactly, but I’ve never been a fan of the phone, not even at 16. So I didn’t make any calls. Do you remember that to make up for that I brought you some sand from Waikiki beach? And that years later I brought you sand from Normandy, France? When I told you about the crush of souls I’d felt there, you knew exactly what I was talking about.

I admit I always thought you were a little racist. Like the thing you said about Puerto Ricans being black, as if that were offensive. Or how you’d go on about Maury Povich and Connie Chung being married. Or the time you called my boyfriend a k!ke. I didn’t like that. At all. But I balanced it against your life.

You’d lived in rural Ohio during the late 40s and 50s, speaking faulty and accented English, saddled with your imported temper. All your friends called you Joe, but that never felt like your name. You should have been a world-class architect, but were foreign and self-educated and stuck. You talked rough but you had buddies of all colors. You only insulted my friends when they weren’t around. I used to joke that your only real prejudice was against fat people. And when I compared you to Redd Foxx, told you you were just like him except Puerto Rican, you tried not to smile but failed miserably.

I learned to watch the news in your living room. I learned to understand it at your dinner table. You were a born storyteller. My cousins and I are all fantastic bullshit artists, and we know we owe it all to you.

I knew you were my favorite long before you died. I was still surprised, though, not by how much I missed you, but by how I missed you. I want to write down that story you told me about how your mother ended World War I through prayer, but I can’t remember enough of the details. I want you to tell me again how much Grandma June would have loved my son. I want to hear you complain about the lack of ingredients in the food. I want you to rant about the purity of National League baseball. I want you to make another cuatro, build another dresser, draw another house.

More than anything, I want to know what you would think of Barack Obama. I think you’d like him. I don’t think you’d care about the color of his skin, though I’m sure you’d have something to say about it. I know you’d vote for him, because you never – in your mind – finished your penance for voting for Richard Nixon. But really, I can’t quite imagine what you’d say and that tears at me. I miss your voice.

Today is All Saints’ Day. This holiday is celebrated in Grenada. Jack’s babysitter tells me Grenadians bring food and little gifts to graves. It sounded a little like what they do in Mexico, without all the frosting. Since yesterday I’ve been thinking about an ofrenda for you, something I’ve never done before. I’m pretty sure you planted that idea; I like it when you whisper in my ear. Since your grave is thousands of miles from here, I can’t visit, but we’re making a meal for you. We have Grandma’s recipes – both written and oral – and Mom and I are going to cook together. We’re using real chorizo and achiote. I won’t put any salad on your plate.

Posted on November 1st, 2008 under Grenada • Tags: all saints' day, election, eulogy, family, Grenada, living abroad, motherhood, PHOTOS, politics. •  Print This Post •  Email This Post • RSS 2.0 feed • Leave a response, or trackback