Grandpa

Grandpa I do not know what to do anymore. You have sent me texts once in a blue moon. Photos of yourself messages calling me Mija. I never respond. Not since how you hurt me when I lived with you.

How I lived with you for a year. How I tried so hard to make it work. Just so I could go to a college that my abusers did not attend. I loved it there. I loved walking around knowing I would never see anyone who hurt me.

How for the first time my peers were actually super sweet. How girls would come up to me. Compliment me in the most warm and tender ways. Try and befriend me. I wanted to make it work with you just so I could still experience that.

All the hours I spent trying to calm you down. Trying to avoid making you upset. All the times I pushed down how you made me feel because of how you would react if I did not. How if I said you hurt me in any way you would tell me I am offending you. That I am disrespecting you.

That in Mexican culture we have to respect our elders. Which to you means I as your granddaughter should allow you to harm me. That as your granddaughter I cannot be fully human. I cannot express grief or anger. You never treated me like a human.

This does not surprise me. I have yet to come across a man who does. How I was expected to be silent when you said something homophobic. When you tell me over and over I should get married and have kids no matter how many times I told you no. How everyone makes excuses for you.

That this is just how you grew up. That we cannot say anything because it will stress you out. I never listened to them. I could not be silent. I know you grew up differently.

But, that does not mean you cannot change. That does not make your beliefs and behavior okay. That does not mean I should not speak up or express anger. I wish I could have a relationship with you grandpa. I wish you would have taught my mom Spanish.

Instead you intentionally made sure she did not know it so you could talk without her understanding. You speak to me in Spanish. Try and get me to speak the words native to you back. But, I cannot. I grew up asking my mom why she does not speak Spanish.

She would tell me I only understand it not speak it. I grew up never visiting you. My mom told me it was because my father did not like you because you were upset your daughter married a gringo. I am upset my mom married my father too. I am upset my mom did not try and connect to her culture in spite of you leaving her out of it.

I am upset that you raised my mom to accept that men will hurt her. That she should make excuses for them instead of leaving them. I am upset that my mom married a man only a year younger than you. I am upset that every time you would hurt me my dad would be happy. Happy someone understood his grief.

But, our grief was not the same. He did not like you because you saw my father for what he is. An ignorant white man. I did not like you grandpa because I saw you for what you are. The person who hurt your family and got away with it because you are a man.

Because you are old. Because you were raised to believe if something is a part of our culture we cannot ever change it. I think you have a heart grandpa. I see it in you in spite of all your harm. I see how you talk about your family.

Your parents who are long gone. How you would tell me stories about our family. About Mexico. About our culture. How you would go up to strangers at Echo Park and strike up conversations in Spanish.

That is what I miss the most grandpa. I miss how with you my heritage felt like a real part of me. Not something people claimed I was lying about. With you I felt a connection to something I have been missing my whole life. Something I had desperately longed for.

I do not remember most of my childhood. I do remember this faint memory of how desperate I was to learn more about my culture. To meet my grandparents. Spend time with my cousins. Aunts and uncles.

How heartbroken I was growing up never visiting anyone. Knowing anyone. How my parents never told me anything about themselves or their family. How happy I was when my mom would take me to Olvera street. Or make me our culture’s food.

That was the closest I got to feeling like being Mexican was more than just my dna. I will never forget the first few weeks I lived with you grandpa. How it was so good at first I fully conceptualized how bad it was for me at home with my parents. For the first time in years I felt like I finally had a safe space. A connection to my family.

A family member. In many ways grandpa I wish to have a relationship with you more than my own parents. My mom does not carry the knowledge and history of our culture. Of our family that you do. I frequently think about if it is really worth never speaking to you again.

Sacrificing my connection to my family heritage to protect myself from your emotional abuse. Deep down I think the pain of losing that is greater than whatever hurtful things you would say to me. So here I lie in limbo. Knowing everyday I am carrying grief I already cannot tolerate. Asking myself when will I be able to manage more just so I can speak to you.

How I long to tell you I am a lesbian more than to my own parents. How I do not want my parents to know, but I want you to know. I want you to know even though you would probably not accept me. I want you to know even though you would probably tell me I will marry a man someday. I want you to know that the girl I like speaks fluent Spanish.

That she is not Mexican, but is Hispanic just like us. How I want to learn Spanish grandpa. How I want to visit Mexico. How I want to meet our family that lives there. How I want to hear all your stories from there.

All the places you hold memories in. How I sang a song in Spanish and I wish I could see your reaction to it. How I wish I was safe to spend time with you. The kind of time where I really could learn Spanish from you. Where maybe in a few months I could be able to have basic conversations with you in your native language.

Maybe one of these days I will figure it out grandpa. I am scared of you passing away. Of me losing my chance. I am also scared of your homophobia. I am scared of your emotional abuse.

I am scared of getting reinfected with Covid again. Maybe one of these days I can handle at least texting you. Maybe one of these days I will figure out how to visit Mexico with you. I hope so. I hope I find some way.

I hope our heritage does not die with me. I hope I can reignite the flame that you let burn out.