Tap Dancing

My grandmother has had a rough life, to say the least.  For all her 77 years on this Earth, I do not recall a time where I have ever seen her do anything for herself; nor have I personally ever witnessed her stop, take a breath, and release whatever it is that compels her to keep doing for someone else, be it caretaking, working, providing, listening or financially funding.  She often jokes that if there is such a thing as reincarnation, she is coming back as a nun, for she does not know the meaning of giving to one's self. 

And I understand where she gets it.  Her mother came to the States from Hungry, married a Polish immigrant; and together my great-grandparents tried to make a life together in industrial northwest Indiana.  They bore nine children, the first eight being boys; and the last, my grandmother---the youngest and only girl---was immediately cursed simply by being born female, based on old eastern European culture.  When my grandmother was just six years old, her father had a terrible accident as he fell a great distance in the steel mill, crushing the side of his skull.  Back then, they did not have the medical advancements capable of offering a recovery.  Instead, they "patched him up" and sent him home.  When he began to see and hear things, behave aggressively and speak senselessly, it was assumed that he had gone 'crazy' rather than assuming these symptoms were a result of severe brain injury.  Common for those times, he was institutionalized and my great grandmother was forced to work and raise her nine childen on nothing more than a meager income and a few farm animals. 

As the only girl, my grandmother was not educated past the sixth grade.  Instead, she was forced to help her mother care for the house, the cooking, the animals, and the welfare of her eight older brothers, who all received educations as well as worked to contribute to the household income.  Grandma tells me that as a girl growing up, she could get away with nothing, because she always had her brothers chasing after her telling her to get home!  Work needed to be done!  A poor, chubby girl with little opportunity for friends or the thrill of boyfriends, was literally forced to be a caretaker from the beginning of her life. 

Sometimes Gram tells me that her mother was very stern, and did not show much love or affection--and definitely not much appreciation.  The boys were the most important because they were providers, especially during the Great Depression and the years that followed.  It felt to her as if the boys were more important, and often she was left feeling resentful and unloved. 

But then Gram tells me about her mother, and how diligently this woman worked herself to provide for the family.  As I am learning myself, this portion of the country suffers brutal winters, and my great grandmother would walk several miles back and forth every day, for an income of change doing laundry for a small business. 

I can hardly stand walking through the parking lot at the mall when it is this cold, much less miles.  Every single day. 

And then coming home to cook whatever parts of the animals were available.....parts I cannot fathom eating even if I were starving.  Cleaning.  Paying the bills.  And still maintaing what my Grandmother says is an "incredible sense of safety and family". 

"I always knew my mother loved me", Grandma says, "because she worked like a dog and was treated like a dog just so she could keep food on the table for us". 

Grandma grew up and fell in love with my grandfather, a young and insanely handsome airman in the Air Force...also the child of Polish immigrants.  Together they married and began their life stationed in Germany, followed shortly by the birth of their first child, Tommy.  Since money was short (isn't it always in the military?) they prided themselves on buying a trailer.  A home on wheels they could take wherever the air force demanded they would be.  I have several pictures of both my grandparents....young and gorgeous and happy....standing in front of their little tiny metal trailer as if they had just bought a million dollar home. 

Just weeks later, Tommy died of "complications".  Several miscarriages were soon to follow. 

When my mother was born, she was the apple of Grandpa's eye.  His Little Princess.  His Perfect Baby Girl.  And when my Uncle Mike was born a couple of years later, something wasn't right with his health.  After taking him to the doctor, they were informed that Mike had Cerebral Palsy. 

Grandma has told me this story a thousand times; but I never tire of hearing it.  She tells me that she was devastated upon learning of Mike's condition, and was terrified as to how in the world she would care for someone who would need so very much more than a "normal child".  As a devout Catholic, she wandered through the park one day, sat on a bench, and sobbed...angry with God for doing this to her.  She was overwhelmed, terrified, and tired.....her whole life had been so hard!  Like so many of us at one point or another, she had reached her limit of hardship. 

It just so happened that the priest from her church strolled by in the very same park.  He had no idea why Gram was crying, or even where she had been for several weeks.  Gram was so angry with God she had not been attending Sunday mass.  The priest sat down and listened to Gram's turmoil, and heard her pleas for help.  He expressed understanding and concern for her plight; but gently laid down some otherwise gruff counsel: 

"Agnes, I cannot tell you how to feel.  And I cannot tell you why you are in this situation.  I certainly cannot tell you why you have been given this child who has so many needs.  But I can tell you that God only gives special hurdles to those He knows can handle them.  He gave Mike to you because He knew you, and only you, were fit for the job."

Grandma, as she has always done, lifted her chin and went on to love her children just as much as any woman loves her children. 

She went on with life and did the best she could. 

I presume years later when her mother---the woman who instilled this sense of hard work and sacrafice---broke her hip and was forced into a nursing home---that my grandmother must have felt a tremendous sense of guilt because she, herself, was not capable of caring for her mother.  Great Grandma was a heavy woman and had special needs moving around and such; therefore, a nursing home suited those needs best. 

My grandmother has been a caretaker ever since I have known her all my 35 years.  She gives and gives and gives and receives nothing in return---hardly a thanks!  Rarely an acknowledgement.  And no matter how much I try to express my opinion that she should think about herself for a change, this woman assures me that she is not made up of the stuff that is self-serving.  God expects us to be there for another human being, for that is our way to heaven. 

Of course, Gram and my religious opinions are different (and undiscussed!); but often I wonder if my own sense of self has been developed by spending so much time with her over the years.  She is my best girlfriend, the mother figure I did not have with my own mother, my mentor, my confidant and the keeper of all of my secrets.  As much as I differ from her in opinion, I do think on many levels I define my worth by how much work I can do caretaking, providing, servicing, etc. 

According to Gram:  "A good woman" does many things
She cooks, cleans, budgets, plans retirements, raises the children, asks for nothing, dosen't get angry, forgives the same sin a thousand times, repents when she cannot forgive, gives charitably, expects nothing, physically works to stay in shape so her man will always come home and desire her, mends by hand, attends church every Sunday, and walks away instead of exchanging ill words. 

Basically, I translate this into a "Good Woman takes it in the ass". 

But I never tell her this, of course.  She'd kill me. 

It is only recently that I have discovered the need to define myself outside of my grandmother.  Though she is so important to me, I have realized that I do not need to be her in order to be that "Good Woman".   I am not only worth what I can give, as my friend Lisa told me today.  While some women may read this and call me crazy for even speculating on this, it is difficult for me to find that sense of self when I have only been praised by how hard I work or how much I give or how well I keep my temper to myself. 

Today, for example, is one of those days I am wondering if I am really worth anything at all.  It is nearly 2 in the afternoon, and I am still in my pajamas, because I have spent the entire day sitting in this recliner chatting with my girlfriend and writing this blog.  My house, currently, is a disaster; and truthfully I don't see that improving anytime soon because I don't phsycially feel all that well.  Plus, there are craft projects and movies that are screaming at me to participate in creating and watching.  I also have a book I would like to finish tonight. 

I don't even know what I am making for dinner.  I may even order something in for the second night in a row.  My Christmas shopping isn't finished.  My hair is a mess.  There is a mountain of laundry at the top of the stairs that I'm stepping over and totally ignoring. 

Because I just don't feel like doing it. 

If I told Gram that, she would go to church and light a candle for my soul's salvation. 

Because I am not a "Good Woman". 

What Gram dosen't realize is that I remember a part of her life's story that she dosen't think is very important.  However, it is my favorite part----the part I keep in my back pocket for self esteem back-up. 

My great grandmother spent several years in a nursing home.  She was so angry for being put there, that, according to Gram, she didn't speak to a soul for years.  She quit talking!  The woman was that stubborn, and that pissed off, that she quit talking to her own children.  She even quit talking to my own mother, her own grandaughter! 

And then I was born on Christmas Day of 1974.  When I was old enough to be taken out, Gram thought it would be good for Great Gram's to see me....a new baby. 

And when they placed me in her arms, for the first time in the five years, this old, angry, bitter woman who worked herself to near death all of her life, did something no one thought she would ever do. 

I was the only thing to make her smile. 

Though she never did speak to anyone, I was continuously brought back to the nursing home for visits for several years.  I have vague memory of visiting her.....going up and giving her a hug in the group room.  I would wear my red tapdancing shoes, and would dance around in circles like some little Shirley Temple.  I remember all of those old folks laughing and smiling at me. 

Most of all, I remember Great Gramma Benko laughing too. 

And I was the only one who could do that....make her smile. 

By just being me. 

A "Good Woman" isn't defined by her work, her giving, her caretaking, her abilities, whatever.  What IS a "Good Woman" exactly?  Can one even be defined?  Do we have to walk 5 miles in subzero temps to be a person worthy of love and attention?  Do we have to repent every sinful thought in order to be loved in God's(s), Goddess's, eyes?  Do we have to perform some noteworthy task---become someone memorable in books or history---become selfless martyrs---for someone to deem us special? 

Would my grandmothers still be loved by me even if they were not hardworking individuals? 

Of course I would.  I love them because they simply are. 

And so today I choose to seperate myself, lovingly, from my grandmother.  She is who she is, and I love her.  But I am who I am---whomever that is---and I too, deserve to be loved and cherished simply because I am.

And I thank my Great Grandmother for the gift of her smile---the purest and most precious evidence that nothing more than my birth was reason to feel joy. 

I am worthy and lovable because I was born. 

My Christmas gift to you today cannot be smelled through cinnamon or viewed by candlelight.  It must be felt.  I wish for you to look at your true nature---not what you do or provide or give---but who are you in the deepest reaches of you---separate of what you were taught or how you were molded and influenced.

and know that I am smiling as you dance for whatever reasons you wish to dance for.