Gossip is not my currency. An adult realization as I reflected on the changing nature of my relationship with Goggy. Goggy, my maternal grandmother, her nickname was an evolution of pet names, literally her first moniker was Grandma Fifi, named for my first birthday gift, a much loved, stuffed French poodle. Later the name changed to Good Ol’ Grandma thus GOG, pronounced gee-oh-gee then Goggy when she became a great-grandmother.
Goggy was loving, irreverent, generous-the ultimate grandmother. She allowed me to suck my thumb even if I was officially too old to have such a babyish habit. When my mother realized that Trix and Lucky Charms were poison, and Grape Nuts or Raisin Bran were the only acceptable cereals allowed through our threshold, Goggy bought me ‘junky’ cereal for a snack. In second grade our television broke, never to be replaced in my childhood. Thank goodness for Goggy’s TV and the television trays we favored in lieu of the dining table, at least until Sunday’s gathering. During my frequent overnights at Goggy’s tiny one bedroom apartment, we watched cartoons, cooking shows, and scary movies. Goggy was my best friend growing up.
She excelled at storytelling. Stories of growing up with her five brothers and one sister were my favorites. Bringing life to tales of sledding on a cold Northeastern hillside, picking blueberries for pies, and misadventures with her brothers. Much was expected of her as the oldest girl in her strict German Catholic family. Her stories told of hardships and demonstrated her ability to always find fun.
My grandmother talked to every person she encountered each day. An early riser, she knew the comings and goings in her apartment building. To get to her housekeeping job, she rode the bus, always engaging the driver and others in conversation. Grocery shopping both for work and for herself combined her love of food with her love of chatting, there were no quick trips to the store.
When Goggy’s storytelling trespassed into sharing more intimate details of her subjects’ lives, her audience leaned in for more. When my first marriage was ending, I became her subject and audience. She was very close to her great-grandchildren’s father and my in-laws. I had disappointed my grandmother by initiating a divorce. Our divorce ruined the happy ending she preferred for us. Who wanted a story that ended with hurt?
A distance emerged between Goggy and me during the last decade of her life. I was hurt when my tenderly shared feelings became information for others. I was uncomfortable when she shared details about my soon-to-be-ex-husband. My grandmother was not wealthy, she had completed high school without the option to study further, her retirement came only because her body could no longer clean and cook for others. She had very little power or control over her life. Gossip was her currency. I understood why, and it still stung.
My favorite Goggy loved to feed people, new recipes provided a challenge, and no one was better at making up games for her great-grandchildren to play with her. Before her passing, I grieved for the woman who had taken such good care of me, who told me such wonderful stories. The contradictions revealed, cleaved my heart.
Storytelling is powerful, important, enlightening. Hearing someone share their own story is a privilege. Through stories we can better understand our world and the experiences of others. Whether or not to tell our own stories is not for someone else to decide.