Stories About my Grandfather
February 19, 2024
In his old age my grandfather was a man of few words. On the odd day I’d hear my mom’s phone ring followed by some brief chatter. The moment we’d cross paths she’d unfailingly let me know who it was. “Your grandfather said to tell the family “Hi””, she’d say.
My answer was usually uniform. I’d reply with a warm smile followed by the question, “How is he?” Her response was always the same. A sigh. A look away. She’d take a moment to process it all before giving a concise answer. “He said he’s alright,” she would say in varied ways. In other moments, her facial and bodily expressions said it all. It took some time for me to recognize that it was all a veil of courage concealing a lifetime of worry and pain. He was someone she cared for. Someone she feared for. But someone she didn’t know how to help.
Growing up I didn’t know much about his life. I didn’t know where he was. I didn’t know if he was even alive truthfully. In some ways I suppose I was too young, self-centered, and distracted by the four corners of my own world to ask. But there was more to it. It also felt as if the unspoken allowed my family to avoid an unknown or painful reality.
In time, this all changed. As I aged my curiosity led to conversations about his life. I can’t say I knew him, but I know his story.
When I saw pictures of my grandfather, he reminded me of Smokey Robinson in 70s. He was a Jamaican man with Jewish heritage. He had a light complexion, a mini afro, and deep brown eyes. He dressed “clean” my grandmother would say. His clothes had to be well-pressed. His afro had to be well-shaped and patted down. He walked with confidence—a rhythmic bounce as his feet hit the ground.
My grandfather was “fearless” my family would say. I heard stories of how he would kill house lizards and rats when my grandmother frantically ran away from them. I heard stories about how he would catch them with his bare hands and tell my mom, “Your mother can be scared, but you can’t. You have to protect her.” Faced with a similar problem as a youth staying with my grandmother, it was the same thing she told my brother and I.
My grandfather was an avid football player and track and field lover. In his early years his love for football drove him as an athlete. He dreamed of making it on the big stage. He dreamed of being one of the top athletes showing off his speed and dribbling at Jamaica’s Independence Park or what I’ve come to know as the “Stadium”. But when that dream didn’t work out, it was his beliefs and politics that shaped the rest of his life.
There were two things my grandfather wholeheartedly believed in: Rastafari, and the Peoples Nationalist Party (PNP) of Jamaica.
Although his appearance with his well-groomed afro conflicted with Rasta beliefs of uncut hair and beards, it was more the principles and the movement that inspired him. It was its connection to pan-African political consciousness that spoke to his inner-self having been the descendant of slaves. It was the African diaspora that led him to believe that Jamaicans and all African descendants were being tested and oppressed. His beliefs built unbreakable bonds with his friends. I heard stories about how reggae musicians like Jacob Miller and Maxi Priest would stand in my families living room, energetically reasoning concepts of liberation.
Despite the fact that his Rastafari belief moved his soul, it was his belief in the PNP that moved his mind and led him into politics. He joined during a revolutionary time as in the 70s the PNP ruled Jamaica, but their rule led to a stark political divide. With this political divide came turmoil and conflict. I remember when I first walked the streets of Jamaica, I was told stories about how people knew someone’s political affiliation by the side of the street they lived on. I heard stories about how as time went on, one’s political affiliation could lead to deadly repercussions. My grandfather understood this. And with this understanding he took steps to mitigate this threat. “He was a man who walked without his ID,” my mom would say—a tactic he used not to be identified if he was stopped.
Along with his work in politics came travel. During the rule of the PNP, the government had a strong relationship with Cuba which led to joint projects and the exchange of personnel. As a result, he was sent to Cuba to train, something my mom didn’t know at the time. My mom told me stories of how her family would drop him to the airport. She recalled sitting inside the airport, patiently waiting for him to board his plane. After some time of peering through the airport’s glass he’d appear. He’d strut down the tarmac with his luggage in hand. He’d board the plane, always sitting in a window seat to exchange waves with the family as the plane took off down the runway.
Over time these trips and his absence became longer. And somehow, each time my grandfather traveled and returned something changed. My mom recalled him being different. He’d say things and tell stories about distant and unreachable people they knew not to be true. But it was never enough to raise a red flag.
One day, on one of their regular trips to the airport my mom’s family all gathered together to drop him off. They waited, like other times, at the airport window, ready to wave as he boarded the plane and took his seat, preparing to do it again when he returned. But this ended up being the last time, because he didn’t come back.
He moved to America at this time. They kept in touch through letters over the years, and in her teenage years she was able to reconnect with him in America until she ultimately moved again. But that was the last time anyone from the family was in his presence.
The break in that connection led to a search that lasted years, tracking down his former friends to locate his whereabouts. When he was finally found, an unexpected truth was revealed. He was homeless. He had been for years. But at this moment he was living in an abandoned apartment. His belongings were many. His words were few. And even though he remembered my mom and the family, at large, they suspected he suffered from schizophrenia, as others in his family had. Suddenly things started to make sense. In piecing together his uncanny and imagined stories and personality changes years prior, the reality of his condition set in. It was his slow but steady mental decline—something misunderstood and misrepresented during his time—that changed how he moved forever.
He had it hard on the streets. Sometimes he wouldn’t shower for days. Sometimes he was jumped for his belongings. Often, he went hungry. He transitioned in and out of homeless shelters. But despite his struggles, he insisted he was fine.
Those same friends ended up taking him in. He lived in their basement where they provided him with fresh clothes and hygiene supplies, but he refused to get rid of his old belongings. He kept his tattered clothes and shoes. He kept the trinkets he collected over the years. They meant something to him.
Being in a financial bind my mom would spend months putting together packages with money, clothing, supplies and to send to him. She worked overtime and scraped every dollar she could to ensure he had necessities, even if she couldn’t be there physically. She did this for some time, and he seemed to be alright.
As time went on his mental health continued to decline. He refused to get an official diagnosis which led to disagreements, fear, and an untenable situation with his friends. He ended up moving into an assisted rooming house my mom paid for so that he could have some oversight from caseworkers. She then began to plan a family visit. It was going to be an opportunity to meet this great man and understand our roots. But it never happened.
My grandfather has since passed on. Today it’s his death that coerces my eyes to replace the faces of the unsheltered with his as I walk the streets because they too have stories and families. It was in his death that I mulled over the unpredictability of life and the mind: the feelings and fervency that enwreathe your beliefs and provide you with a sense of purpose; the strength and resiliency you’ve manufactured in your soul which drives your plans for tomorrow. We develop and do these things with the expectation that tomorrow will come. We do these things with the expectation that tomorrow, we’ll still be who we are today. But what tomorrow brings—life, physical and mental soundness—isn’t promised. I try to live with this understanding. I use and offer my gifts to the world today because I don’t know what tomorrow may bring. And I take care of and create space for myself today, because I may need it tomorrow.
I didn’t know my grandfather. But I know his story. Although this isn’t all of it, now you do too.