By Kristel Keuren
My grandmother didn't see a stitch all her life. Ironic, considering that she loved knitting. Number two on her hobby list was Scrabble, which we played frequently. She would let the white stones with letters dangle between her thumb and forefinger just in front of her ‘good eye’ to see what had landed on her board. ‘Haha! Gotcha!’ she then grinned. But however sharp she was, however alert and ad rem, there were also things she did not look at....
I have always loved her. My granny. Although she was very Dutch, a clay-faced Frisian, people often mistook her for Indonesian. Pitch-black hair, thick and coarse. A sharp tongue and a somewhat hunched posture. Ad rem, funny, cynical. If she ‘had to’ you, it was great fun. If you were rejected, it didn't work out.
Worldwise
She didn't mince words and when the children were born, my grandfather walked behind the pram. He also ran the hoover. ‘No more than logical,’ she thought. ‘Ridiculous,’ people in the neighbourhood thought.
At 70, which was just very old at the time, she took swimming lessons after a lifetime fear of water and started a course in English. ‘You have to keep up a bit, don't you?’ She knew about the world, I felt.
I was her first grandchild. As proud as a peacock she was, and she held me tightly. Even without sight, she saw me. And what she rarely uttered to her own children she regularly let me know by almost illegible, cock-legged letter: ‘I love you, child’. I often mistakenly called her ‘mum’. Just as now my own daughter sometimes calls my mother ‘mama’. History repeats.
On my right ring finger, I wear her ring -gold, delicate- with a ruby. It is the only ring I never take off; my grandmother always travels with me. In the most difficult moments, I stroke the stone and she appears to me, whispers messages to me, secretly stops me scrabble stones. Lets them dangle before my eye, with her pretend eyes behind them. ‘Keep playing, child!’ she then giggles, when I once again take the world too seriously.
Looking Away
Yet there were also things she did not look at. Difficult things that remained unspoken, untouched, untouched. Things that I felt were tension, shame. Family history, perhaps. Things that were important to bring up.
So I did. I was 18 and starting training as a professional therapist. Well, then I had to face my shit myself, I thought. So I talked to family members, researched, reflected, was honest. Raised difficult themes and events. She knew I did, but didn't want to talk about it specifically. ‘I don't know,’ she would say. Or: ‘I was just doing whatever,’
My grandmother ended up in darkness. Her sight deteriorated, and she demented. At the same time. Losing her way in the dark. Day after day, month after month, year after year. We lost her. ‘Can I please die?’ she asked me. ‘I don't want to anymore!’ she screamed. I despaired, I cried. I couldn't be with her anymore, I couldn't bear it. Grandma in the dark. Dear Grandma Hillie van der Zee, searching for her soul and meaning.
Light on it
Her darkness is my motivation to bring what is in the shadow of families into the light. Because I don't see time as linear. Everything is all-time. And by transforming now what is in our shared shadow, I shine new light on her muzzle, on her mother's, on our foremothers'. Thus, through her, with her, I create a new perspective. A new timeline. By not hiding, but being present in life. So that we, all the women in this line, all the women who were and who will be, can step ever one step further into the light.
‘Yep, it will all be fine. Just get me a cup of tea, kid.’
Is good, grandma, is good.
My grandmother (the girl with the white dress) with her siblings
Ps: You can also listen to this story, on location at Seats2meet... Search for ‘Touched by tape’ in the space ‘Inspire’ and put the cassette in the player!
