The Tamesis
I was sitting in a playground packed with unaccompanied minors at a private party for my grandmother’s 80th birthday. I arranged a tower of Susie Cakes for my diabetic family to eat and welcomed my aunt I hadn’t seen in years. I whispered to my mother why we didn’t gather in the restaurant? You know, more appropriate for this kind of milestone celebration. She told me that grandma wanted to throw this party for the children in her life, only half of whom were even related by blood.
My grandma was many things, but she was first and foremost a caregiver. It’s a palpable and rich part of who she is, and intrinsically linked to her queerness. Grandma was a lesbian, the old-fashioned kind. “I never thought of myself as bisexual,” she told me haughtily over a bite of too-sweet banana pudding. “I only have sex with men because that’s what my mother told me I should do.” She made a retching sound, then giggled. This is the first time we explicitly talk about her sexuality.
I’m 31, but I can’t remember when I first realized my grandma was gay. I’ve learned something about myself since I saw Roxanne in the movie. a stupid movie Holding hands with a brunette middle school bully named Lauren, but I have no idea what lesbianism is It seems Like, really. I was familiar with it long before I could identify what it felt like to be queer.
Still, I couldn’t see my grandma through a heterosexual lens because she was never normal. Grandma, or GG, is not a grandmother; she is a grandmother. The word isn’t even on my tongue. She’s too young for the title, often braless, has an arrogant personality, and has silver piercings all over her ears. Grandma didn’t sing me lullabies, but she did know every word to Eve’s “Let Me Break Your Heart.” She’s always moving and cursing people. She had a rotating group of children in her one-bedroom apartment in Oakland who, for some reason, she was in charge of. When I was a teenager, I started assuming that everyone was some kind of cousin. It may just be part of being black, but it’s also part of being a grandma.
While other people’s grandmothers softened with age, my grandmother seemed to only grow stronger with age. Even without saying the word “lesbian” out loud, there was always some unspoken connection between my grandma and I that drew us both to nose piercings and made us scream and wonder. I would drive north from Los Angeles to visit her, her “roommate,” and their giant Rottweiler, Juma—a dog that was more a symbol of her lesbian life than the dark-skinned stallion who lived in her apartment. There were no pointed questions or formal sit-downs about her gender identity; she just was. That’s just how she is.
I saw in my grandma a world of infinite possibilities. I love the color and chaos of her life. I love her far left political beliefs and her vulgar mannerisms. I love her baggy jeans and her always-stained T-shirt. I love her messy apartment and her self-created colloquialisms. I love the way her boobs hang down and the way she lets them hang down. I even loved her fierce devotion to my mother and disdain for my father. I loved how she hated the police and still does. She visited me in New York last spring, and one of the first things we talked about was how insulting and ironic she found ICE’s presence throughout her visit to the Statue of Liberty.
