Veola Parker

I just received the call that my great grandmother has passed away.

My own mother is named after her. Her health had been slowly declining but after my Uncle Robert Lee and Uncle Jack died, a bit of my grandmother died with them. So in the last year she has had to deal with a lot…dementia, alzheimer’s, arthiritis, diabetes, lung cancer, blood clots and the list goes on.

I did not cry when my 15 year old sister called to tell me she had passed. Our entire family has known it was coming. I regret not seeing her again this weekend. I saw her on wednesday night and told myself I’d go visit her this weekend too. I hope someone was in the room when she passed. Even if it was just a nurse. In my mind I fantasized about going to visit her and reading her a book and rubbing lotion on her hands because they were so dry this weekend. And you know what I did instead? I cleaned my apartment yesterday. I baked cinnamon biscuits and went to see a movie. And I spent too much time of facebook. That was my weekend! FUCK FACEBOOK!

When I went to see my grandmother on Wednesday…I was feeling strong at first and then the moment I grabbed her hand and whispered “grandma”, I started to cry. And then that made all my relatives in the room start to cry. But I was crying…not because she was dying. That’s natural. I was crying because of what I saw. She had an oxygen mask STRAPPED around her head. A big one with two black straps. She had at least a DOZEN tubes going in and out of her. There was a tube connected with a container that was pulling BILE out of her. Her right had was swollen three times its normal size. Her body was cold. And she was strapped down in RESTRAINTS because she kept pulling all the needles and things out.

My grandmother chewed tabacoo all her life until she was unable to do so. She always had a cup next to her and would spit it into that.

So that’s why I cried in the hospital. Because I didn’t like seeing her like that. I knew she didn’t want that. She was sometimes alert. She’d wake up and look. But I don’t know if she recognized anyone. Its kind of like how a fresh new born looks at you. If that makes sense. I stayed in the hospital that day for hours. And before I left i rubbed her hair and hands and I did what my mother asked me to do. I whispered it into her ear.

I also played a game with her and I would like to think she knew it was me. I would softly squeeze her hand. And she would squeeze back. Then I’d squeeze harder and she’d do the same. Then I’d do it twice and she did the same. No one else in the room noticed it but grandma and I were talking through her hands. I wish no one else was in the room because then what I wanted to do was to tell her one squeeze was yes and two squeezes were no and I wanted to ask her some questions about how she was feeling, what was going on and what she wanted done.

The funeral has not been set yet since she just died. Below are some things I wrote about her or my family. Because my family is dying away and I’m not sure the legacy the Parkers are leaving.

Oh yes, I also found out my grandmother had 17 children, not 16 like I originally thought. And of the 17, only 5 are still living. Aunt Theresa. Aunt WillaMae. Aunt Evelyn. Uncle Jeff. Uncle Tony.

The rest are dead.

I wonder what they are doing to my grandmother’s body right now. Are they taking all the tubes out. She had a ring on her pinky. Will they bury her with it? What will they do with her things? My cousin sold her bedset. What about her pictures. What about her Patti Labelle perfume? I would rather all these things be left alone and something else done altogether.

I just saw Harry Potter tonight and when Dombaldor died, all the students and teachers standing around silently raised their wands dimly lit to the sky and it cleared the evil spirits away for just a moment and the sun shone through. They all did it. Very ritualistic.

Instead of my family arguing over who took out the insurance policy. Who will write the obituary. Who will get the pictures. Instead of all the nonsense….I would rather we find a bit of magic to honor our grandma with. I don’t have a wand but I’d like to find some other ritual.

Mictecacihuatl is the Aztec, “Lady of the Dead.” Her job was to watch over the bones of the dead. I invoke her spirit over my grandmother. Don’t let another person put a strap or tube or anything on her body. Let all who touch her, touch her with holy hands. With gentle hands. (Frank, I really wish there was a Saint of Hands because I’d only want him touching my grandma now)

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Written January 6, 2006

Veola

When telling stories, I often say my grandmother did this or my grandmother said this. In actuality, she isn’t my grandmother. She, Veola Parker, is my great-grandmother. My grandmother was murdered when I was three years old, and therefore I don’t remember her and have always referred to great-grandma as grandma. My cousin Dominique has always called her, “Great-Granny” in this very tiny sweet voice.

When thinking of my (great) grandma I am reminded of her huge five gallon jug of lard that she kept in her kitchen pantry. She didn’t use vegetable or olive oil like we, “healthy 2006″ people use. She didn’t use butter. She didn’t use nonstick spray or nonstick pans. She would get a big spoonful of lard and put it in her big black pan that doubles as a weapon and she’s fry her chicken. Yes, the five gallon jug of lard is part of my memory.

There is also (great) grandma’s tea cakes. As a child my grandmother would always make these tasty treats. I don’t know the ingredients to these delicious cookies. Every time I ask her for the recipe she scuffs at me, “What recipe? I don’t have a recipe. I just put the stuff in a bowl and mix it and bake it.” As a child, while grandma was in the kitchen rolling the dough and using a brown cup to cut out the cookies, I would sneak my hand on the table whenever she’d turn away and grab some of the dough. It was so delicious. Although, now that I’m older, I’d add a bit of cinnamon to it too. To this day, grandma still hasn’t given me that recipe. I want it. She also hasn’t cooked the teacakes in a long time. She hasn’t cooked much in a long time.

My (great) grandmother was born September 25, 1925. That was such a long time ago. It was a different life. When she was growing up she was “colored”. My grandmother was probably a “negro”. My mother was “african-american”. And I’m “black” or just plain “american” Its interesting what time does to people.

My grandmother has lost a host of children. First Barbara..which was my grandmother. Aunt Minnie, my favorite. Uncle John Henry, he used to scare me and he was always drunk. Uncle Robert Lee, that death hit me in a place that left me even without tears. I’m not sure if there are more. (There are. 17 total)

I’m often scared that if my grandmother dies we will lose a whole world of history. I think her memories even go back to picking cotton in Mississippi. Her memories go back to “white only and colored”. She’s so old that she doesn’t know what cell phones, digital cameras, and video camera are. I wonder if she’s ever traveled outside the United States. Did she ever go to Europe? I wonder if she was ever a flirt? Who was her first kiss? Was she a geek, a tomboy, or a tease? Did she like oatmeal or grits? Orange juice or apple juice? (She was a flirt. She told me later..the last time that I visited her when she was in ok health. She told me she’d go to bars and flirt with the men and smoke cigarettes)

She has two other sisters that I know about. Rosa and Josephine. What wonderful names to have growing up. Veola. Rosa. Josephine.

These days the names are Jawakatema. Bonquesha. Shabarie. Tequila. Mercedes. and Denim.

In 1940 she was fifteen.
In 1945 she was twenty.

When did prohbition start and end. How old was she? How many wars has she lived through? How many presidents? How many men did she love?

I’m writing all these because my mother called to say that great grandma was diagnosed with dementia and amnesia and that really scares the hell out of me.

Dementia

· Deterioration of intellectual faculties, such as memory, concentration, and judgment, resulting from an organic disease or a disorder of the brain. It is sometimes accompanied by emotional disturbance and personality changes.
· Madness; insanity.

Amnesia

Partial or total loss of memory, usually resulting from shock, psychological disturbance, brain injury, or illness.
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Written October 21, 2006
How many uncles does it take to keep a family together?

I asked my mother on the way to the funeral, “How many uncles do we have left?”

“Two,” she said with a second of silence seeming to be eternity, “Uncle Tony and Uncle Coota [Jeff]“

No Uncle John Henry or Frank or Robert or James or Jack. Only two left.

It scares me but seems morbidly befitting that we are losing the men in our family.

Our family is dying and it scares me. It hurts my soul. It makes me curl up in a ball and yield silent screams that only heaven can hear.

Because life happens this way I was in Jackson Heights, Queens, New York eating Mango and Thai at Rice Avenue with Lydia and Hannah. And Auntie calls and she tells me Uncle Jack had a heart attack. The moment was reminiscent of my mother’s call to tell me Uncle Robert had a heart attack.

Both times I was eating. Today, I don’t want to eat. I want to say fuck restaurants and people who answer their cell phones in restaurants. And cute city goers who wear high boots who eat their Thai and talk men with the girls and answer their cell phones only to find out Uncle Jack had a heart attack.

And there is always that MOMENT.

That moment when on one end of the telephone your life has changed. Something has broken. Something shifted and there is no going back. And then on the other end, life, time…nothing stopped at all. One second passed after another. And the three women to the right of me were still eating their Pad Thai because my phone call did nothing to change their world and yet on the other end of it Aunt Tasha was on her way to Grannie to hold her as she began to break down.

How does that happen? How does everything break and shift and get mangled into balls of pain while still…nothing happens at all.

It was the same moment in Bon Appetite. Mom tells me Uncle Robert has a heart attack. My world crashes and right in front of me someone is singing Happy Birthday and my waffle looks good.

I once told Hannah I would not have a breakdown in a Vietnamese restuarant. As tears approached my eyes, I remember saying to myself, “You will not have a breakdown in a Thai restaurant. You will not cry right now. You will eat your mango and enjoy your single city life and when you go home to your bed to the comfort of your books and journals and blogs…you will break down then. You will keep your composure now and you will break down then.”

He asked, ‘Why not cry in a Thai restuarant.” He is all about the moment. In this moment what is your mind, heart, and body telling you to do. I should have joined you as the water came down. I should have said the moment I saw you, “I want to spend every moment with you.”

I went to work. I went to the funeral. And then Mo Rocca kissed me on the cheek.

Thats how my life works.

I train for four hours about coporate policies and procedures. I choke back tears as I see the lifeless body of a man who’s love was very quiet and then I hop around with my every maturing sister on a cold city night because Mo Rocca kissed my cheek and Carl Kasell calls me a friend and because Lola shook hands with Michael Moore.

I cannot handle another death.

Aunt Minnie
Uncle John Henry
Uncle James
JAMES
Uncle Robert
Uncle Jack
now we add to the dead
MAURA deSouza
Grandma VEOLA

My mother wants LIFE at her funeral. Can it be said that I want no one at mine.

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