I Am Bold by Mari Assad

My grandmother was not a nice person. This is a horrible thought for a granddaughter to think at her grandmother’s funeral. But it is the only thought that keeps coming to my mind. The fluorescent lights are making it impossible for me to hide the disdain on my face. Which wouldn’t be so bad, if I was not in the front row of a whole congregation, sitting between my mother and the church choir. Just as the priest is about to begin the prayer, someone’s phone goes off. Great.  

I keep looking around the church, avoiding my grandmother’s coffin. I stare at the crucifix in the center of the hall and get paranoid that Jesus might be looking at me. I stare at her old family photos pinned to the bulletin board, and the candle in front of me burning, just like my concentration, burning away. Trying not to think of the absolute worst truth. My grandmother was not a nice person.  

I never knew my grandmother. I was never given the chance to know her. The last time I saw her, she was in the hospital and did not recognize me. She was sick and very old; I do not hold that against her. Before that, I saw her at an airport. I was 23, and on my way to a cousin’s wedding. I never told anyone, but I did not recognize her. I do hold that against her. And, before that, I remember her staying with my family at the age of eight. My mom does not know, but I caught her and my grandmother at the end of an argument. My mom told her to leave her and her family alone. And, I never saw her again, until the airport.  

When my mom told me I was expected to attend this funeral, I was scared. I do not know much about my maternal side, but I do know of the abuse that my mother endured from her family. I know it is true, because it was a mutual abuse I endured. I was nervous about what was going to trigger my mom and what she would project onto me.  I love my mom. I probably love her the same way she loved her mom, from a safe distance.  

My mom turns to me and asks me if I would share a memory of my grandmother.  She wanted all of the grandkids to say something. I panic. What memory? The few I have are not very loving. If this were a year ago, I would have responded in a language only my mom understands, anger. Not this time. I calmly and politely say, “no.”

She takes in a sharp breath. I know that sharp breath. Her shock. Her panic at the loss of control. She knows she cannot make a scene here. My mind is racing. Maybe you can make something up? But why lie? Why lie about the memory of someone I do not know? Who am I protecting? Who am I hurting? I keep looking forward at the burning candle.  

My mother turns to me, again, “Say something about your grandmother.” I can feel my heart racing. If the church choir wasn’t singing, everyone would hear a loud panicked heartbeat. Which would be a dark joke, considering we are at a funeral.  

I remember what my therapist said, You are the best parts of your mom. Maybe that is what frightens her. The words pierce through my armor. We are both passionate, headstrong women, who pushed past the boundaries that our families held us down to. I wonder if we would be friends if we met today as strangers. I wonder if she would be friends with her mother.  

I think about that argument years ago, my mom telling my grandmother to leave her family alone. She was protecting me and my siblings. And here I am years later, stronger because of it. Stronger, because of her, and because of the woman I chose to be.  

I assumed my moment of redemption would be me walking away from the dark shadows, relinquishing the pain I held on to for years, and smiling at the promise of a brighter future. Like a scene from a movie or passionate pop song. Instead, I do not run. I do not laugh. I don’t even giggle. I look into her dark brown eyes, shaped like mine, take another deep breath, and firmly say, “No.”  

Finally, she whispers, “Okay.” And turns back to the altar where her mother’s coffin is. I see a tear fall down her cheek. I know that pain.  

Without thinking, my hand makes a bold move. I reach out and hold my mother’s hand. She squeezes it.  

About Mari Assad: Mari Assad has moved all over the U.S., and now resides in Los Angeles, C.A. She grew up living life on the stage, she dreamed of moving to New York to pursue Broadway. It was not until her senior year of college that Mari was forced to write a short film for her senior thesis. That’s when she fell in love with writing. She hopes to live life by her pen, and to travel the world. When Mari is not writing she is playing with her cats, baking in the kitchen, and laughing with her friends.  

About Stories Matter: Stories Matter is a mentoring program founded by writer Leslie Zemeckis, and co-sponsored by the SBIFF and ENTITY Magazine, for young female writers, nurturing and inspiring the next generation of writers to tell their stories. A weekly intensive where published female authors give their time to encourage and share their writing process. These are the best of the bunch, some remain works-in-progress, and some will (hopefully) take these stories and turn them into longer pieces.