The Grandparents I Never Knew
My mom's parents both died within a year of each other, right after she married and then gave birth to my sister (yes, my sister was born nine months and two weeks after the honeymoon...and yes, relatives were counting the days suspiciously...haha!). None of us kids got to know them. My sister was held by my grandmother, and so was my brother Ken (Ken came exactly 9 months after Rose was weaned at 6 months. Yes, I told you guys I came from a Catholic family!). However, when my brother Ken was around 10 months old, my grandmother died too. Then a year later my great-grandmother--who had lived with my mom in their house for her whole unmarried life--also died. It was a rough three years for my mom.
My dad's parents were wonderful to us children, so in my youth I only pondered once in a while what my mom's parents must have been like. I mean, I HAD a great set of grandparents, so it was ok that I lacked the other set, right? But as I grew older, I began to wonder. My mom rarely brought up her family life, so I had to pry whenever I had the chance. The portrait I eventually could sketch from her details facinated me. I feel cheated for having never known them. It feels wierd to find out small scraps about them each year, doled out like sweets after dinner to small children, never knowing if I know all I could know or not. What I do know, though, makes me wonder why I struggle so much with foreign languages when apparently it was in my blood to be at ease with them!
My mom's dad came from Hungary, a disputed area that once was part of Romania. He was a non-practicing Jew, and his arrival over in the US was sudden and unexpected due to an altercation with a Jew-hating professor at his medical school pre WWII. Now THAT story is a blog entry on its own! I will give you the short version: he had to leave the next day. Or else. He grabbed a cousin and they fled together, arriving here with little more than the shirts on their backs. A smooth talking man, he actually persuaded a medical school to let him in with NO academic records. He couldn't obtain them since the altercation with the professor led to his accidental death (told ya that one was a blog entry on its own!), and so the school would never let him have the records. He was a wanted man. I can't imagine what that was like for my grandfather, but in the end since every last one of his close relatives in Hungary were sent off and gassed during the war, I suppose he thought it was fortunate in the end that he was forced to come here and start over.
My grandfather apparently spoke five languages fluently: English, Hungarian, French, Italian, and Spanish. He also spoke three others passingly well. This skill alone was helpful as he was a surgeon in Chicago, a city with a diverse enough population that his language skills were essential. Apparently, I inherited the ability to talk somebody into something they don't want to do...and the mercurial temper...from my grandfather. He was very good natured until you pissed him off. Then he was scary. Yes, my personality definitely has its roots in that man!
My grandmother was Mexican. She came from a wealthy family who was about to lose it all due to the Mexican revolution. My mom says they had an indoor pool, and that was in the 1910's. They were told silly tales about America like how the streets were paved with gold and there were gems along the street they could pick up. So, they gave away all their fine china and other items to the servants and fled. Upon arrival, my great-grandfather greeted my great-grandmother and grandmother at the trainstation in rags. The additional shock? They arrived in Texas and were greeted to the sight of bathrooms labeled, "Whites" and "Colored and Mexicans". Texas was not friendly to them, so they ended up in Chicago...where she met my grandfather eventually. My grandmother was a nurse; my grandfather was a surgeon. It's obvious how they met then, eh?
Now, for many years I knew that my mom and her brother spoke Spanish before they spoke English because Spanish was the language of their household. My great-grandmother ONLY spoke Spanish and she lived with my grandparents, so they predominantly spoke Spanish there. My mom quickly picked up English too, and no one would ever hear an accent on her. Apparently, my grandmother was a bit quirky...so I know where I got that from too! My grandfather hunted, and he hung up a nice buck's head with many pointed antlers on the wall. Grandma apparently thought it would look better with Christmas lights strung on it, and she refused to take them down. She just...lit it up all year round. Whenever my grandfather and my grandmother got into a fight, my grandfather would bring my grandmother watercress. Apparently, she LOVED fresh watercress. That makes me laugh: the image of a sheepish, jet black haired Hungarian man coming in with a bunch of watercress in his hand instead of the traditional flowers. It made my grandmother laugh, and then all was usually better.
These details are what flesh out my background, but just a few weeks ago I learned something else that made me pause and wonder, what ELSE don't I know? My grandmother spoke fluent French and was a Francophile. My mom was teasing me that it must be through my grandma that I decided to fall in love with a Frenchman, and I had no idea what she was talking about. Hell, my grandma used to belong to some special French society in Chicago and frequently entertained the French ambassador! Wow!
That made me have a crazy image too...my grandparents fighting in three different languages, and that necessitating an even larger bunch of watercress to fix it all...
I wish I had known them. All I have left are these stories. I am lucky enough to have my other grandparents--they loved me endlessly--but I am greedy. To know my mom's parents would have been wonderful. But I guess I'll just keep badgering my mom for more information instead..that's the only way to see them...
My dad's parents were wonderful to us children, so in my youth I only pondered once in a while what my mom's parents must have been like. I mean, I HAD a great set of grandparents, so it was ok that I lacked the other set, right? But as I grew older, I began to wonder. My mom rarely brought up her family life, so I had to pry whenever I had the chance. The portrait I eventually could sketch from her details facinated me. I feel cheated for having never known them. It feels wierd to find out small scraps about them each year, doled out like sweets after dinner to small children, never knowing if I know all I could know or not. What I do know, though, makes me wonder why I struggle so much with foreign languages when apparently it was in my blood to be at ease with them!
My mom's dad came from Hungary, a disputed area that once was part of Romania. He was a non-practicing Jew, and his arrival over in the US was sudden and unexpected due to an altercation with a Jew-hating professor at his medical school pre WWII. Now THAT story is a blog entry on its own! I will give you the short version: he had to leave the next day. Or else. He grabbed a cousin and they fled together, arriving here with little more than the shirts on their backs. A smooth talking man, he actually persuaded a medical school to let him in with NO academic records. He couldn't obtain them since the altercation with the professor led to his accidental death (told ya that one was a blog entry on its own!), and so the school would never let him have the records. He was a wanted man. I can't imagine what that was like for my grandfather, but in the end since every last one of his close relatives in Hungary were sent off and gassed during the war, I suppose he thought it was fortunate in the end that he was forced to come here and start over.
My grandfather apparently spoke five languages fluently: English, Hungarian, French, Italian, and Spanish. He also spoke three others passingly well. This skill alone was helpful as he was a surgeon in Chicago, a city with a diverse enough population that his language skills were essential. Apparently, I inherited the ability to talk somebody into something they don't want to do...and the mercurial temper...from my grandfather. He was very good natured until you pissed him off. Then he was scary. Yes, my personality definitely has its roots in that man!
My grandmother was Mexican. She came from a wealthy family who was about to lose it all due to the Mexican revolution. My mom says they had an indoor pool, and that was in the 1910's. They were told silly tales about America like how the streets were paved with gold and there were gems along the street they could pick up. So, they gave away all their fine china and other items to the servants and fled. Upon arrival, my great-grandfather greeted my great-grandmother and grandmother at the trainstation in rags. The additional shock? They arrived in Texas and were greeted to the sight of bathrooms labeled, "Whites" and "Colored and Mexicans". Texas was not friendly to them, so they ended up in Chicago...where she met my grandfather eventually. My grandmother was a nurse; my grandfather was a surgeon. It's obvious how they met then, eh?
Now, for many years I knew that my mom and her brother spoke Spanish before they spoke English because Spanish was the language of their household. My great-grandmother ONLY spoke Spanish and she lived with my grandparents, so they predominantly spoke Spanish there. My mom quickly picked up English too, and no one would ever hear an accent on her. Apparently, my grandmother was a bit quirky...so I know where I got that from too! My grandfather hunted, and he hung up a nice buck's head with many pointed antlers on the wall. Grandma apparently thought it would look better with Christmas lights strung on it, and she refused to take them down. She just...lit it up all year round. Whenever my grandfather and my grandmother got into a fight, my grandfather would bring my grandmother watercress. Apparently, she LOVED fresh watercress. That makes me laugh: the image of a sheepish, jet black haired Hungarian man coming in with a bunch of watercress in his hand instead of the traditional flowers. It made my grandmother laugh, and then all was usually better.
These details are what flesh out my background, but just a few weeks ago I learned something else that made me pause and wonder, what ELSE don't I know? My grandmother spoke fluent French and was a Francophile. My mom was teasing me that it must be through my grandma that I decided to fall in love with a Frenchman, and I had no idea what she was talking about. Hell, my grandma used to belong to some special French society in Chicago and frequently entertained the French ambassador! Wow!
That made me have a crazy image too...my grandparents fighting in three different languages, and that necessitating an even larger bunch of watercress to fix it all...
I wish I had known them. All I have left are these stories. I am lucky enough to have my other grandparents--they loved me endlessly--but I am greedy. To know my mom's parents would have been wonderful. But I guess I'll just keep badgering my mom for more information instead..that's the only way to see them...
posted by Kira | 11:51 AM
8 Comments:
Your family is weird, what with the love and all. Buncha freaks. And you only speak one language - ha ha ha, you redneck. :p
That's awesome! You were destined to learn to speak French, I beleive!
This is the reason why I think we need to spoil my sister and bring her over to the USA ;)
Strange how you miss the grandparents you never had but I reject my French grandparents.
THey both sound like wonderful people and I understand why you miss them. It is almost as if a part of you was hidden.
Mr. Wanderer - is your sister cute? If so, I can forgive her lack of being Japanese.
i'm second gen australian, my dad's viet-chinese and my mum's malay-chinese. The stories they could tell... My grandparents especially.
I feel the same loss, that I do not speak chinese better to communicate with my dad's parents. One day learning about their stories would be great, though asian's aren't much of the story-telling type.
When my parents met they did not share a language. My dad came to australia with chinese and vietnamese and the clothes on his back. My mum spoke english and malay and her father had made his money from messenger boy to money lender. But they were both poor uni students.
i will continue to drill my parents with stories of from their past and parents.
THAT was a fantastic blog post. What a great collection of stories--thank you SO MUCH for sharing them with us.
I can certainly relate. My Father's father died several weeks before my dad's first birthday. I never knew much about that side of the family, and my grandmother didn't volunteer any information until I was an adult, and then she parcelled it out slowly, as if she were preparing me for something. My dad and his sisters would say anything. The silence, apparently, was more my grandmother's idea.
I don't have any aristocracy or medical students in my family background, though. No midnight escapes, and only a few family members in Chicago.
Family mysteries. I wonder why we have them.
Keep digging. Even with the mate there are stories I wish he had written down...I forget too easily.
It's part of you. I never figured out I was heavily Dane until I did the math and my Great Grampa was born on the boat coming over here. Always thought of myself as Irish and German with a little English and Scot thrown in.
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