I wish I knew my grandpa better.
I wish I knew him beyond the fact that he’s always been my last connection to the city I was born in. I wish I had more memories of him, instead of remembering the echoes bouncing off the high ceilings in his house, or the creamed corn that I hated to love and would eat when I stayed with him.
I wish I could have gotten to learn more about him- what he loves, what makes him laugh, what makes him mad, his greatest triumphs and regrets. But the barrier between us was too vast, we barely even spoke the same language. I always wanted to learn twi, and in the last few years, every time I thought about my dear grandpa, I wanted to know my mother tongue all the more so that I could connect with my culture and my living ancestors. My grandfather was my last chance to know about the real Ghana, because maybe he was told stories of how things were before the British invaded.
But by no means did the barrier between us stop me from being able to love and cherish my grandpa. This is because I’ve always been raised to feel connected to my family, even if we aren’t really related. So when it comes to the father of my mother, I have always had a high degree of respect and admiration for him because without him, my mother — and so I, wouldn’t even be here.
Since I was young, I’ve always heard the story of how grandpa was able to support my mother in leaving Ghana for Israel. He helped her get settled with work and a place to live. Even though she didn’t get to grow up with her parents the way I did, I know my mother had a strong foundation provided by her father during one of the most vulnerable and risky times of her life. She was on a journey that would end in her settling in America, the place where she wanted to grow, find her success, and have her family.
And while I hate the fact that my family felt the need to leave their homes for a shot at success and happiness, I am forever thankful that I did not have to be born into the same overwhelming conditions. When I think about my mother, she is a symbol of courage and strength — so I can only imagine what courage and strength my grandpa had to possess to be in the position to support his daughter’s emigration.
From the time I was able to spend with him and the memories I do have of him, I will always remember that much like my mother, my grandfather, despite all he had been through, he had joy. The hardships of the world were not able to erode his spirit. The last time I was able to see him over facetime, because he was in the hospital and covid protocols barred us from being able to see him in person, he was smiling and still communicating with us even though all of his cognitive functions were not running at peak. And I plan to follow this example as I continue to take on life in all its ups and downs. I won’t go down without a fight, and I will maintain a tight grip on my joy.
So while I wish I had stories to tell, or that I had gotten more stories from him, I will proudly carry his legacy and make sure that those who come after me are full of all the stories I never got to hear.
This is for you, grandpa. I love you.
