This is already an unforgettable year for me and it just seems like the craziness won’t stop anytime soon.
I teach a college class where students travel to Ghana over spring break. Students from a variety of majors take the class and generous funding is provided for the trip. It is one of the most meaningful teaching experiences I have ever had. I have been taking students abroad for many years but these past couple years have been different. The current political climate and its impact on youth has made the experience intense and radically necessary.
Last year marked 400 years since African slaves were brought to the U.S. Ghana declared it “The Year of Return” and encouraged the entire Black diaspora to come “home.” Epic parties were held with celebrities and flights were filled with Black folks from around the world. They came to learn about their history and connect with their ancestral power. My students studied this last year and visited the slave castles where thousands of humans were held captive, tortured, and forced into ships. The visit was painful for all the students, but especially for the Black students. Some found it healing, others found it unbearable. And us non-Blacks watched and witnessed, and later gathered to listen, discuss and search deeply for a way forward.
March is Heritage Month in Ghana. There are celebrations for Independence Day and culture, art and heritage events throughout the month.
Along with deep learning, there is always deep enjoyment in these types of trips. Hanging out with Ghanaians is always a good time. The sun, the constant music, the playful banter, and the food forces you to realize you are not in the U.S… and for a moment in a more peaceful place.
Two days before departure, this year’s trip was cancelled due to coronavirus. At the time it seemed unfair and I mourned the loss for my students. It seemed like the virus was no where close to Ghana. My colleague and I decided to go to Ghana anyway. The tickets were bought and so many people in Ghana had already made arrangements for our class. There were also 10 students from the university in Ghana waiting for us to come.
KNUST/Penn Global Seminar students from last year and this year led by coordinator, Don Amrago. Wearing kente from Kente Master, a company started by alum Peter Paul Akanko
We arrived with no problems. We met the Ghanaian students and explained why the U.S. students couldn’t come. We took trips to the village non-profits and explained why the class was canceled. We met with leadership at the university and discussed creating summer internships in lieu of our course. By the end of the week everything changed because Ghana got its first cases of COVID-19. After only 4 cases, the President of Ghana declared an emergency and closed schools for the month and canceled worship gatherings and funerals.
KNUST Primary School, an elementary school on the university campus where my friend Grace teaches.
Yonso Project, a bamboo bike company and brand new school founded by hometown hero and entrepreneur, Kwabena Danso
Every store in Ghana had a person with hand sanitizer spray at the entry. You had to wash your hands in front of them before you entered the store. Upon entry and departure everyone had their temperature checked at the airport. When I met a Queen Mother in a rural village, I had to wash my hands with soap and water in front of her and bow instead of handshake 6 feet away. Every few minutes the radio and TV had alerts with the rules on how to combat the virus. I was so impressed with this poor country that is largely dominated by the informal economy. I hope that the high temperatures spare the Global South the same kind of spread we are seeing in the Global North, but only time will tell.
My last two days of the trip were spent visiting friends and their families. These are friends I met 20 years ago when I was a study abroad student. They are the type of friendships that last no matter the distance or time.
My friend Kwansa and his sister, Grace, surprised me with this gift. Fifty keychains of my mom. Here is why this was the best gift I have ever received:
Forever in Our Hearts,Barbara Ann Ganey Shown
Family in Ghana is defined as more than just parents and kids. Family is uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents and friends that become family. This was my mom’s definition of family too. I look forward to mailing these key-chains out to her beloved “family” members.
It is also a bottle opener! Now this makes a lot of sense in Ghana because they still use reusable glass bottles. It is also just so fitting for Barb. She was the best person in the whole world to have a beer with. It is an ode to her Irish roots and the parties my parents threw for friends and family over the years. It encourages a toast in her honor…Cheers! Slainte!
Ghanaians celebrate the death of loved ones with lots of pomp and circumstance. They have huge parties and often mark the anniversaries of the death with equally huge parties. They make posters of the deceased and hang them in the neighborhood, they wear matching outfits, and they carry on in such a way that everyone in the community joins to mourn and celebrate together. My friends in Ghana were shocked to hear that U.S. bereavement policies are nonexistent or for only 2 days. They were shocked to hear that we had a funeral a month after she died. Ghanaians wait up to a year or longer. This gift is so special because I felt like the average Ghanaian understood my loss more than most Americans. They were openly sorry and have encouraged me to have an anniversary funeral (aka party) for her ten years from now. Who’s down for that???
There was plenty of advice our mom had given Stace, Pat, and I over the years. Don’t drive angry. Clean your bathroom. Don’t furrow your brow. But by far the most repeated and the one that has always stuck in our brains was ‘kill ‘em with kindness’. This advice would often be given when Stac, Pat, or I were fuming over mean girl conflicts in school, struggling with an incompetent boss or co-worker, or being bested by an unruly child.
Kill ‘em with kindness, she would say. Be so severely nice that the person won’t know what to do other than to get along with you. It works. It’s good advice. My sister, my brother, and I— we get along with lots of people. Our mom taught us so many different life lessons over the years, but this one, I believe, has been by far the most significant: how to genuinely be nice to people. To connect and care for others in meaningful ways.
Being kind is a pretty broad life lesson but it’s one that continues to be incredibly impactful to me in my life, my work, as a parent. Certainly to my sister and her family. And to my brother and his endless legion of friends.
Our mom also preached peace. Peace was very important to her, all the time. Which is why I do find her #1 advice line to be quite ironic. Kill them with kindness. It has a sweet sentiment, for sure, but make no mistake, you’re dead when I‘m through with you. I will kill you with how kind I will be to you. It’s actually kind of morbid, when you think about it. Which makes sense, our mom was also kind of morbid. As kids, our mom often took us to cemeteries and graveyards instead of playgrounds and parks. But anyway…
You are all here right now because you loved Barb. She probably tried to kill some of you with kindness, but you survived. In her unique way, she was so kind to so many people in her life. And as her kids, we had a front row seats to watch our mom be kind. It was amazing to watch.
As an adult – as many of you are – our mom probably did something kind for you. Made you a piece of art, helped out on some project of yours, mailed you a funky package of stuff, had a drink with you, maybe even something more profound and meaningful.
But to be honest, our mom did not care too much for adults. She loathed our busy, stressful lives. She was annoyed by our petty disputes. This, of course— because why deal with adults when you can be with kids. Barb much preferred the company of kids to that of us adults. She relished playing with kids of all ages. Kids relished playing with her.
She could connect with kids in a way that seemed rather SUPERNATURAL. Whether these kids knew her as BaBa, aunt Barb, Ms. Shown, or just Barb — they loved hanging out with her, playing games, exploring the outdoors, reading books, and receiving packages. Our mom’s bond with kids was and is truly stunning.
And it’s heartbreaking to know she’s gone, and to think about the kids’ lives she won’t have an influence on. But at the same time, we know she lives on inside the hearts of so many kids. Many in this room, including my sister and Symeon’s kids: Samson and Desmond. Kristen and I’s kids: Percy and Della Ganey.
My brother and Rena. They don’t have kids. But really— at heart and in size, my brother Pat is the biggest kid you have ever met. Pat has terrific toys, the best toys. Our mom LOVED hanging out with Pat. We all LOVE hanging out with Pat.
So let’s do just that. Let’s all hang out with Pat today, drink a beer, try not to be too sad, and let’s attempt to kill each other with kindness.
“If every flower wanted to be a rose, spring would lose its loveliness.” ~ Catholic Saint, St. Therese of the Little Flower
Back in the day Mom and Dads’ first house was the gathering place on this street. My dad commented just this week that he wishes life was like it was then, when people would stop by to say hi. No texting, no scheduling, just stopping by to talk and share a beer. My brothers and I were all born two blocks away. As we moved to different homes my parents maintained their open door policy.
My mom was a kid magnet and our home was a giant playhouse. All kinds of kids entered the chaos of our life because their own homes were boring, not weird, or their parents worked all the time, or they had single moms or their parents were going through divorce. Sometimes they were kids who had less. Less money, less opportunity, less love, less food. Immigrant kids who were navigating a new culture. Kids who just wanted to hang out because they were allowed to. Allowed to get messy, Allowed to be themselves. You could be anybody at our house. She let us dye our hair and shave our heads. We got piercings and tattoos. We had slumber parties with boys and girls. She’d tell us that she’d rather we express ourselves in creative ways rather than turn to drugs and other stupid shit. And somehow, while creating the most fun house in town, she encouraged us to leave and see the world. We knew that home was not a place in Fort Wayne, Indiana. It was a feeling we could take with us anywhere. She loved learning through our travels and supported every single trip we took. I found every gift and postcard we ever sent her….in the basement. 🙂
When I went to Ghana to study abroad my passport was stolen and I was detained for awhile upon entry. It was super scary at the time. I wasn’t able to call home until I was released and made it to the university the next day. When I got her on the phone I couldn’t even talk. I was crying so hard that I just silently sobbed. And she was there on the line saying, “Hi sweetie. I love you. I don’t know what happened you can tell me later. But you are ok now… and I’m proud of you and you are brave. Hang in there. Whatever happened you will be ok. You are tough. Call me again soon. I love you.” My only word was… “bye.”
She always knew what to say to bring you up. To make you strong and solid.
That was almost 20 years ago. In two weeks, I’ll be going back to Ghana to lead a study abroad program. It will be my 9th trip there.
I’m going to miss my mom everyday for so many reasons. There are just so many things in my home that were given by or made by my mom. All my holiday decorations, my kids’ toys, books, and art. There are also all the things that were made possible because of my mom, items from my younger years traveling and things I made because I learned the skill from her. This sounds like physical stuff, but if you know my mom, you know how she felt about stuff. Everything could become something special if displayed correctly, painted over, repurposed or re-gifted. Stuff was her spirituality. Every holiday needed to shine with new stuff and every project needed new supplies of stuff. And you must always save stuff for the near and distant futures.
I spent some time in the basement, The SmithSHOWNian last week. I found the cut off jean shorts my dad had on the day they met, I found my hand drawn birth announcements, I found Pat’s middle school persuasive essay on the significance of Pop-up books, and I found hair from Ben’s first hair cut. I also found teaching units, mountains of craft materials and art supplies, and bins and bins of photos. Every time I found something very cool to save, I would turn around to find many more of the exact same thing. My mom was nostalgic and she loved looking back on good times and bad. She kept things because it made her cherish life. She made things and gave them away so others too could have some stuff to cherish. It was painful to find all the half-finished projects and items earmarked for future gift-giving. She never expected this. Neither did we. That big ole house of stuff sure does feel empty now.
We can’t talk about Barb without talking about Don. My Dad loves my mom so much and she loved that he was so into her. She was the type who resisted and was always telling my dad to back off, but we all knew she secretly loved it and being loved by him was the most secure thing in her life. In the love she knew they could do anything. They could solve any problem and get through any struggle. They had their roles and worked them to the extreme. Nothing fell through the cracks because they worked out a system where everything got done. They were so proud of each others’ work. Every meal and every car repair was a sign of their love and commitment to each other, to family. Everytime my dad was in an accident…and OMG there were so many freakin’ accidents! Her heart sank and she mustered up all her strength to heal him. And the years my mom was in pain, her back surgeries, and these past three months with cancer my dad’s heart sank too. It is deep in an ocean of sorrow now because he couldn’t heal her. We must learn from their love. We must commit and recommit to family and healing each other.
My mom spent her final years painting with the sun. She was our freckly, strong, redhead starting fires of beauty everywhere she went.
May her flame burn in us all forever.
“Hope is like the sun. If you only believe in it when you see it, you’ll never make it through the night.” ~ Princess, Leia Organa
When I was three years old, my grandmother asked my mother to take me to see a child psychologist. I had yet to speak, instead opting to communicate using primitive grunts. My mother, who has had an unwavering belief in my abilities since the moment I was born, steadfastly refused. But she couldn’t just say no…she had to offer some kind of rationale. Thankfully, she had one piece of evidence that she could point to – I actually did talk, but only to one person, my Aunt Barb.
Over thirty years later one of my two-year old daughter’s teachers pulled me aside when I was picking her up after school one day. “Maya keeps talking about someone named Baba or Barb, who is that?” My Aunt Barb had come to see Maya the week before and in classic Barb fashion had brought a gift specially designed for Maya. It came in a box with her name painted on it and included a doll as well as hair ties that Barb had jazzed-up with sequins. Maya refuses to ever let anyone put her hair up…except for her Aunt Barb. Maya had worn one of the hair ties to school and proceeded to tell all of her teachers and classmates – with tangible pride and emphasis – that she got it from her Aunt Barb.
I once heard someone explain a certain politician’s abilities as follows: “Everyone in the room thinks he is speaking to them specifically and personally.” I would alter this phrase to describe the amazing qualities that make my Aunt Barb so special and unique: everyone who knows Barb feels like she loves them specifically and personally.
The modern-day saint Mr. Rogers recognized and honored two fundamental truths:
There is no more important experience in the world then feeling the strength and warmth of unconditional love.
Every individual person is special and unique.
In reality, though, these aren’t really two truths but one – unconditional love has to be felt on a personal level. Sadly, too many people never experience either unconditional love or the recognition of their uniqueness and value. Thankfully, many others feel this through the warmth of their immediate family. But my Aunt Barb has the special and unique gift – and the dogged determination to share that gift – to make so many people feel both unique and loved. And you really can’t have one without the other. Love that isn’t unique to each person is not nearly as special or as deep as the kind of love built around someone’s specificity.
I don’t know how my Aunt Barb does it. She is the kind of person that deserves to be emulated. But I’ve tried emulating her from time to time, and it’s exhausting. She must wake up every morning determined to make someone feel special that day. And even when I tried to emulate her, I couldn’t figure out how to make such a wide array of people feel individually and personally loved. My Aunt Barb has that effect on so many people – her immediate family, her sisters, her nieces and nephews, her neighbors, her friends, her grandchildren, random neighborhood children she quasi-adopts, etc. She can direct a Christmas nativity play during our family Christmas party and somehow each one of twenty different nieces and nephews would feel that their role was the most important role in the production and that only they were able to play that specific role. My Aunt Barb has a unique ability to look into each person and see what drives their passion and makes them special, and then celebrate that.
I love Notre Dame. And I love business and finance. These passions and identities are core to who I am. I don’t think my Aunt Barb has a notable affinity for either (certainly not the second). But nonetheless every now and then I would get these special gifts from her that celebrated these passions – an antique postcard from Notre Dame or a book on an old financier.
Often times these gifts were curated from her basement library of artifacts, affectionately dubbed “the SmithSHOWNian” (referencing her last name, Shown). Her family tries to keep her from adding to the collection, and I have the texts to prove it [if you can’t tell, my Uncle Don didn’t originally realize Aunt Barb was included on the text; this still makes me laugh out loud]:
But the SmithSHOWNian is not the act of a hoarder. Quite the opposite. My Aunt Barb collects these things in order to gift them out. It’s like her canvas. She stands ready and prepared to descend into her basement and reappear with a gift perfectly suited for the specific person at the specific moment, to make them feel both special and loved. (Often times, with an additional flare added by her amazing artistic abilities.)
I come from a family of fixers. Every time something goes wrong in life, my father and brother leap into action. It’s hard to understand the pain and suffering that can occur in life, and my family’s reaction is to treat it like a computer bug that needs fixed. It’s a noble reaction resulting from an attempt to rationalize something that can’t be rationalized. But it’s probably the wrong reaction in many circumstances.
Often times we can’t fix suffering. As a result, most of us try to avoid thinking about it. We pretend like it isn’t there. What should we do? The only thing really left is to suffer alongside those you love. To be empathetic. When someone suffers with you, when someone really works to understand and feel what you are going through, it completely changes the face of suffering. I think one of the worst parts of suffering is the loneliness – “Why do I have to go through this?” But when someone special like my Aunt Barb suffers with you, the suffering becomes so much more bearable. Few people are able and willing to take on this role.
I can think of no higher calling than to be a person of empathy. And man is my Aunt Barb empathetic. I think that’s why she is so political and raised political kids – she cares so deeply for others. But it was my own personal experience of this empathy – and the Smithshownian – that really opened my eyes to it.
I love Notre Dame and finance, but my truest, deepest passion was to be a father. And not just a father, but a father to daughters, like my mom’s Dad. I never actually talked about this. But somehow my Aunt Barb just knew, because she knew me.
Unfortunately, my wife and I were confronted with fertility challenges. Although these kinds of challenges aren’t uncommon, they are rarely discussed in the open. It feels almost taboo to talk about it. So my wife and I didn’t talk about it outside of our immediate family. Before personally experiencing infertility, I would have had no idea what it was like to suffer through these difficulties. After two years of trying, we still had no baby and we were starting to wrestle with the idea that we might not ever have our own children. It was devastating.
I never talked to my Aunt Barb about this, but she knew. I’m sure my Mom mentioned it to her – they talk about everything – but on another level I think she just knew. She knew that I wanted to be a dad more than anything and she knew how hard it was for me to face the prospect of it not happening.
At Barb’s youngest son’s wedding reception, my wife and I could share some wonderful news – we were expecting a baby girl that coming May! Miraculously we had gotten pregnant after two years of trying. Telling my mom’s family was one of the real joys of the entire pre-birth experience. We will never forget Barb’s oldest daughter Stacy crying with sincere joy (empathy runs in the family).
The next day we were at a family gathering at Barb’s house. If you have a big family you might be able to relate, but a Ganey family gathering is a weird mixture of amazing and exhausting. It’s like a grueling, difficult hike through a national park – an amazing experience, but one you need a few months to recover from. Imagine a lot of love but also loud, domineering women trying to out-mother each other (with a playing field consisting of twenty-plus kids and grandkids). My Aunt Barb is the best host, with fun and original activities each party that bring the family together in new and unique ways. She hasn’t slowed down much even though she’s been racked with pain the past several years. She puts on a brave face and hosts her heart out. I can only imagine how exhausted she is after these parties, and the fact that my Aunt Barb has faced so much pain during her retirement is like a star athlete blowing out his knee in his prime – my Aunt Barb was built to be a Grandma and Great Aunt. It was her time to shine. But amazingly, she hasn’t let the fact that she can barely walk slow her down too much.
Anyway, we were at my Aunt Barb’s for a Ganey get together, just one day removed from her son’s reception and the news of our pregnancy. We were having a great time and my Aunt Barb was ultra-busy playing host despite her pain and exhaustion. When it was time for us to leave, my wife and I thanked her and said goodbye to everyone. When we got to my car parked down on the road I noticed something sitting on my windshield. It was a children’s book:
Of course it wasn’t just any children’s book. It was a special book that my Aunt Barb had curated from the SmithSHOWNian. It was a book that she had surely been keeping just to give to me at the right moment. Somehow she had slipped out during the party and left it on our car. I opened the book to the first page and read:
“How does sleep come?” Jacob asked his Mama as he climbed into bed. Jacob’s Mama tucked the covers all around Jacob just so, and then she told him. “Sleep comes quietly. Like a snowfall that blankets a meadow on a dark starry night, and lays down a soft white canvas for rabbits to leave footprints.”
Then I flipped back to the inside cover, where I found the following note from my Aunt Barb:
My Aunt Barb had suffered with me the entire time I waited to be a father, and now that the day was finally about to arrive, she was as excited as I was. She’d had this book waiting to give it to me in celebration. I felt loved, special and unique in a way that only my Aunt Barb can make me feel. To this day, I can’t read this book to my daughter without choking up. Every time I see those words I remember the stress and pain that came with waiting to become pregnant and then the love and warmth that we felt from our family, and from my Aunt Barb. There are few people in this world who have the gift to make someone else feel so uniquely loved, and fewer still who have the determination to fully realize that gift.
At his friend Charlie Munger’s 95th birthday party recently, Warren Buffett offered the following toast:
Over these 60 years, Charlie has made me far richer than I would have been. He’s made me far smarter than I would have been. But the most important thing he did for me was not make me richer or smarter. It was to make me a better person. Look around in your own life. How many people can you say that about? That they made you become ‘a better person’ than you otherwise would have been? I say most of us can’t fill one hand with the number of people who have made us a better person. Yet what could be better to do than help others become better people?
So many things make my Aunt Barb special. But most of all is the fact that so many people can point to her and say “Barb made me a better person.”
My Aunt Barb is battling stage 4 cancer. It’s absolutely heartbreaking. Of course this hasn’t stopped her from being Aunt Barb. On Halloween I opened the front door to retrieve a package and found a bag hanging from our front door-knob. Inside was a small pumpkin specially painted for my daughter. Maya knew right away where it came from – “Aunt Barb!” This was the week before Barb’s diagnosis when she was racked with pain and not eating. One week later when we were saying our nightly prayers and we all recite what we are thankful for, Maya said “Aunt Barb and Uncle Don.” Even now, Barb is on Facebook everyday sending people messages of love and encouragement.
This sounds terrible, because dying is always sad and difficult no matter the situation, but nonetheless my brother put his finger on it – “It just sucks so much because Barb is just so special.” You may or may not have noticed, but throughout this reflection I’ve written “my” in front of “Aunt Barb.” That wasn’t planned, that’s just how it came out. I never say “Aunt Barb.” I always say “my Aunt Barb.” Because that’s how I feel – she’s mine, unique to me. And the beautiful thing is that is how everyone feels about Barb. She is their’s, special and unique to them. What greater gift is there than that?
My mom loved the Super Bowl. If the Bears or the Colts weren’t in the game she often went for the underdog or the team with the best colors or logo. She would also support the teams wherever her kids lived. It was an excuse to celebrate and my mom loved to celebrate all the things. When we were little she helped us make posters and dress in team colors. We cooked special food (bean dip), invited friends over, and voted on our favorite commercials.
This year the Kansas City Chiefs are in the Superbowl. The team was named after Harold Roe Bartle who was a two term Mayor of Kansas City, Missouri. When he was a young Boy Scout he claimed he was “inducted into a local tribute of the Arapaho people” and was called Chief Lone Bear. He wasn’t Native American and he wasn’t a chief, but the name stuck and won a name-the-team competition. Today the team and fans will come out proudly wearing “Native” themed attire and participate in fake “Native” chanting and dancing.
Growing up in Indiana (Land of the Indians), it was common to have Native American named mascots. Our schools, libraries, summer camps, and streets are named after tribes that once lived in the area (Shawnee, Kikionga, Potawatomi, Blackhawk, Little Turtle, Tecumseh, etc.). In the mid-90s, when I was in high school, our mascot was the North Side Redskins. We called him Chief Mac and he wore a headdress and chanted while throwing a tomahawk. Students copied the chant and throwing motion in the stands during football games. They wore face paint.
My mom was the first person in my life to point out how offensive this was. My mom despised the term redskin and went to PTA and local meetings to voice her concern and support the movement to end the racist practice. She taught me about the history of the word and forced me to realize there was absolutely no presence of Native Americans in our community. Both of my parents enjoyed reading about Native Americans. We had loads of folktale stories and dense history books about them. We also spent a whole month of summer vacation learning about Native people of the American Southwest while visiting Colorado, Arizona, and Texas. Yet, I remember arguing with her about it because as much as she tried to teach me, I was self-absorbed and convinced I wasn’t being racist. I told her we didn’t mean it that way and it was just a tradition- that it would be weird to change it now. I also didn’t know any other moms that voiced an opinion like this.
It took some more traveling, meeting new people and college courses to set me straight. My mom was right. This practice is deeply racist and offensive. It needs to end. The American Psychological Association called for a ban on all Native American mascots due to the increasing body of evidence showing that this imagery and language:
Harms the social identity development and self-esteem of Native American young people and
Teaches children that it’s acceptable to participate in culturally abusive behavior and perpetuate inaccurate misconceptions about indigenous people
Journalist Simon Moya-Smith, Oglala Lakota Nation, writes, “Native American mascots might be the last form of traditional American racism that people of every color and creed will rush to support and defend. On any given Sunday during the regular NFL season — right there in the stands — one can find a black guy in a headdress, a white guy in redface…Native American mascots commodify indigenous peoples and our cultures; they make us and our heritage into images and words and logos to be sold non-Native people. It’s a complete and utter appropriation for profit by others.”
It took my high school until 2015 to get rid of the name and it didn’t come without complaint. My facebook feed was full of high school acquaintances promoting the tagline “Redskin 4-life” after the new mascot, “Legends” was revealed. I remember calling my mom. She was so upset at folks in her community who refused to do better.
Moya-Smith concludes, “We will be mocked and told to “get over it.” We will be commodified and told things like “we’re honoring you.” But I am here to ruin the party, because that party harms the mental health and stability of kids. Children should be valued over mascots and definitely over cheap team loyalty – every time. Decent people don’t harm kids and they certainly don’t enable anything that would.”
Be pro-kid and be decent. Be like Barb. End racist mascots.
There is much to be said about the importance of the sibling relationship. There are more small and single child families today than ever before and due to that, entire social systems are changing. As I grieve my mom’s death, I can’t stop thinking about her relationship with her sisters and my relationship with my brothers.
5 out of 9
My mom had eight sisters. She was born third in line. It was a fun fact and a harsh reality at the same time. She loved it and was so very proud of it. It wasn’t without heartache though. There were fights, fall outs, and even a loss that none of them predicted. But most of the time it was beautiful and I looked up to my aunts and deeply wished for a sister of my own. My dad has five siblings. He is the baby of the lot and with that comes a different type of relationship to his brothers and sisters. All of my parents’ siblings had at least one kid and those kids have kids now. My many cousins were my first friends and I still appreciate them dearly.
clearly sometime in the 80s
Growing up I was always close to my brothers and honestly, not much has changed. We have lived in multiple cities and countries and have very different careers but I’ve never felt distant from them. I know that at some points we have all been annoyed with each other and worried about one another but mostly it is just love and support. All day, everyday. This could be because we are all just super cool people but I’m pretty sure it is because of mom. She was the architect of the family and also the builder. As kids we did everything together. As teens we started doing our own things, but found tons of common ground to stay connected. We all left home at one point or another before there were cell phones and internet. We kept in touch through postcards from our posts in college and travels in Europe, Africa and Asia but mainly through updates shared through mom. Mom taught us that home wasn’t so much a place. It was our unique family bond. I always felt sorry for families that didn’t have what we had.
I can imagine that a death in the family can make a family break apart. My mom was definitely a homebase and the head of our nuclear and extended family. She was such a presence that it will feel obviously empty at any future family gathering. But I’m not worried about anything breaking apart. My brothers and I will only get closer now as we fulfill her legacy.
They shape the person you become. Kids raised with siblings have a natural understanding that people can be very different. When you grow up with people with different aptitudes and personalities than yourself, it instills a very high social and emotional understanding of people around you; even much later in life.
They help you communicate better. People with siblings have negotiated a lot in their younger days. Watching and listening to siblings helps kids strengthen their communication loop. They quickly understand what will work and what won’t with their friends. They also develop unique methods to negotiate with their parents.
It’s one of the most enduring relationships of your life. Children who grew up with healthy relationships with their siblings tend to feel more supported and secure during adulthood. Not surprisingly, this is because siblings know you right through your soul as a result of sharing the same parents, same environment, same conditioning, same discipline and even the same disappointments.
So there is a theory many of us have about mom’s illness. It was because she was so healthy that they didn’t find the cancer soon enough. It was because she was so healthy that she lived for a week without food or water while asleep in hospice.
Her garden in July
She’s thankful for books!
My mom loved to eat vegetables. She hated ice cream and most sweets. She had an amazing garden that produced enough food for her to can and freeze much of it to sustain her through the winter. She loved spending time in the garden too.
My mom loved children’s books. She loved the pictures the most. She can remember her favorite book as a kid, not for the story but for the illustrations. She loved diverse books and reading about people, places and perspectives. A deeply visual person.
I encourage you to do two things this week in her honor:
1. Eat more veggies. We recently signed up for Misfit Market. We get a box of organic veggies delivered to our door step every other week. It is cheap and SO easy. Sign up here: https://www.misfitsmarket.com/
2. Read diverse books. Here is a diverse book challenge for kids and grown ups alike. If you are in Philly you can even get a free coffee for each book you read from a category. The 2020 Diverse Reading Challenge from Big Blue Marble Books:
Indigenous Author
There are many great chapter books, YA novels, fiction, poetry and nonfiction by Native/Indigenous authors. I just finished There, There by Tommy Orange.
Afrofuturism
Afrofuturism is the reimagining of a future filled with arts, science and technology seen through a Black lens and cultures, myths, and traditions from across the African continent. I am reading Tomi Adeyemi’s Legend of Orisha books.
Poetry
Any poetry will do but I enjoy reading Shel Silverstein and Nikki Giovanni books with my kids.
Comics/Graphic
Comics/graphic novels add the emotional power of visual art to story telling. Fiction, nonfiction, memoir, humor – authors and artists are constantly pushing the boundaries of how comics format can be adapted to make beautiful and complicated stories. Check out Hilda graphic novels for kids.
How an Object is Made
Both my parents loved these kinds of books. They inspired all sorts of projects in our home growing up. Take a deep dive into the how-to of something you care about – food, furniture, fiber, buildings, toys, books – who makes these, and how, and how have they shaped us?
#OwnVoices is a movement to create books about diverse characters written by authors from that same diverse group. While authors have worked hard to responsibly write the “other,” it’s also important to seek out books written from personal experience and books that value accurate representation of race, disability, cultures, gender, and sexuality.
Final Book of a Series
Finish a series and celebrate!
Immigrant Author
Every part of our daily lives – food, architecture, music, clothes – has been shaped by immigrants to the U.S. We need new voices and new visions in order to see our world more clearly, and to fight back against the current political culture that attacks immigrants.
Something Just for Fun
2020 is going to be a rough year – take time to read something just for pleasure. As pleasure is an important human emotion, we won’t judge or consider a pleasure “guilty.’ Sometimes one just needs to read a happy-ending love story, spend time with a favorite childhood character, or delight in a high-body count thriller.
Upcoming entries….why everyone needs art and the power of siblings. Stay tuned.
Before Christmas I set up a recording so that people could call in and leave messages for my mom while she was going through chemo. Friends and family called in and we recorded over 70 sweet memories, songs, and silly stories. Thank you to all who called in. Here is the message I left:
Mom right after Christmas with all her grandkids
Everything I do is connected to you. How I interact with people, how I think, how I watch movies, how I cook, how I read to my kids, how I yell at my kids, how I shop, how I talk to my husband, how I feel about myself, how I dress myself, how I see art, how I make things, how I enjoy music, and how I think about the world. I have always known this, even on the days I don’t actually think about you, but ever since you got sick it is like there is a spot light on all my interactions and all my feelings. I can feel the you inside me. When I went to the boys’ school to take in my African stuff, I felt like you. When I emailed my coworkers but edited it to sound more diplomatic, I felt like you. When I made chili and cornbread for dinner for my family, I felt like you. When we all watched Mandalorian after the boys got home from that rough visit to the dentist, I felt like you. When I walked around Aldi, Michaels and Goodwill this week pricing out things for Christmas and deciding if the deal was worth it, I felt like you. When a kid at Samson’s school ran up to me and called me Teacher Anastasia, she might as well have been saying “Mz. Shown” because I felt like you.
This is probably not going to go away and these feelings will cause me to feel warm, happy and sad all at once but I wanted to let you know how much you made me who I am.
Everyone says to give your children the tools so that they can grow up and build their own life. Most parents don’t seem to have a clue what this actually means. I know what it means because of you. I am not boasting that I have perfected it, but I sure know what it looks and feels like.
You didn’t teach me how to swim really. You were never a good swimmer. I learned because you took us to the water…and often enough so that we learned. We swam with cousins, neighbors and random people on vacations. We swam in dirty lakes and fancy-to-us motel pools. You took us to the ocean …and more than once!
Not a month goes by without Symeon saying he is so glad he has a thrifty wife. He loves that I save on groceries, that I buy used clothing and that I will go great depths to spend as little as possible. He says I have mad skillz. I have only you to thank for that. I watched you turn nothing into magic so many times. Every single holiday was magical, every meal was delicious, and every outing was an adventure. I knew that we didn’t have enough money all the time (remember my diary recording from 1989?) but I never once worried about my well being. I was worried about you and Dad, but I never worried about myself because I knew you would totally and completely take care of me. I have always known this.
You never sat us down to explicitly teach us how to talk to people that were different from us, but you gave us lots of opportunities to meet different people, to play with them and learn more about their lives. You did this by letting everyone come to the house. You did this by making us go to countless fairs, museums, and parks. You did this by taking us to shop at certain stores—Southtown Mall, the Third World Shop, festivals booths. You did this by taking us out of the state to visit family and places even you had never been to. And we read books about all sorts of people and places. These exposures made us practice communicating with all types of people. Probably the best tool of all.
I can find lots of articles to explain how art influences all parts of like. STEM education is now being renamed STEAM education with inclusion of the arts. You knew this way before it was trendy. You gave us loads of opportunities to make art, to watch others make art, to see diversity of art. This wasn’t just exposure to crafting and going to art museums although we did that all the time. It was science fairs and school musicals. It was birthday party gifts for friends. It was creative snack trays that you brought to my room when I was doing homework. It was locker signs you made before my swim meets. It was all our Halloween costumes. It was the graduation and holiday cards you sent out. It was the letters you sent in our defense to our teachers, principals and other assholes that messed up. I saw you use your creative and artistic power everyday to solve problems, get messages heard and make the world brighter and more colorful.
The fun part about using the metaphor of tools is that I can so easily do the same for dad. He’s imparted just as many to us. In his own Daddy Don way. You two have given us the heaviest tool box. We will be lugging it around forever. And because of that we will be the strongest!
I’m so thankful that I have you both and that my whole life was cemented in your love. I know now that marriage is hard hard hard, but you guys are gold medalists. Everyone is a fan and cheering you both on everyday!
It is killing us that we can’t take care of you! We have watched you in pain for so long and it has created tension and stress. I’m so sorry. I love you so much mama. Merry Christmas.
Be Like Barb 